


Circles and Whale Songs

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Divergence, Complete, Eating Disorder, Fluff and Angst, Indecent Deck Shorts, Losing Time, M/M, Major Character Death Sort Of, Memories of Past Life, PTSD, Past Rape/Non-con, Past life, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Reincarnation, Suicide Attempt, The Winter Soldier is not okay, Whales Know Best, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, descriptions of torture, graphic smut, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 84,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Roberts doesn't like to speak ill of the dead, but he has some choice words for his deceased parents after they saddled him with the name Steven Grant Roberts on a whim.  Little does he know he's about to have a fateful run-in with a metal-armed Soviet assassin on a mission to find lost KGB intelligence.  Upon clapping eyes with his kidnapper, he begins having memories that don't belong to him, memories about a sickly man named Steve Rogers and his life with Bucky Barnes.  As the Winter Soldier tries to stay one step ahead of the Avengers, Steve realizes his feelings for his kidnapper have much less to do with these memories than his own empathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Longing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing in third person present tense. It was much harder than I thought it would be! If you notice any tense changes, please point them out.

December 1987 an expedition to the Arctic uncovers the wreckage of the Valkyrie, WWII era aircraft containing the remains of Captain America. Former director of S.H.I.E.L.D. (retired), Peggy Carter, is present when the ice that imprisons Captain Rogers thaws. Doctors can't hide their astonishment upon discovering the captain's heart continues beating, circulating the serum-infused blood enhancing Rogers' body. The United States rejoices the return of their fallen hero.

Peggy (66) and Steve (whipper-snapper) cause the first of several media frenzies by marrying two months later. Host of the Late Show (Joan Rivers) refers to the couple as Agent Old and Captain Boy Toy during a comic sketch. Agent Crypt Keeper and Captain Diaper Squad fire back by releasing a candid photo of their honeymoon that pictures Rogers in a spangly Speedo and Carter in a barely-there Union Jack bikini. The slang “behold the field in which we grow our fucks and see that is empty” is invented early in said universe. Also? Snail mail breaks for the second time in as many weeks.

June 1988, Captain Rogers suffers a fatal gunshot wound to the head while exiting S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in DC. His blood disperses into storm drains. The pavement runs red. Hearts run black. Peggy Carter becomes a widow within four months of becoming a wife. Joan Rivers publicly apologizes and makes a substantial donation to a wounded veteran fund in Rogers' name.

Blood from Captain America snakes through the water system until arriving at a sanitation plant where it eventually slithers through the tap of Apartment 3B at The Waters and Graves building in a suburb of DC. Viviette Roberts (maiden name: Dernier) draws water from the tap and drinks, one hand cradling her tremendous baby-stomach. On July 4th of that year, she gives birth to a preemie son she names Steven Grant Roberts in honor of the late Captain America. Tearfully, she recounts a story on a local news channel celebrating Fourth of July births wherein Rogers saved her father's life in combat.

Hydra agents threading throughout SHIELD's framework bury intelligence linking the murder to a KGB sleeper agent known as Leonid Novokov. The murder investigation goes cold.

***

Six thousand miles away, the Winter Soldier reports to base after the completion of a mission on the same day Agent Novokov returns with his handlers. The Asset sits heavily to allow medics to tend a single gunshot wound that grazed his scalp while chasing high-priority CIA targets. It requires stitches. He will not be returned to stasis until three days later after running a secondary mission.

Cold eyes watch Novokov from beneath tangles of sable hair as the kid reports to Aleksander Lukin, current chairman of the KGB. Recognition causes a pain between the Asset's eyes. Asset Briefing creaks back into motion inside his busted cranium to provide context. _Novokov, Leonid: Clumsy little shit who required too many knocks to the head and broken bones to learn how to do a proper sleeper hold. How that little prick survived to become an active agent is beyond me._

“Mission report.” The command tap-dances from their superior's tongue.

_Why do I know tap-dancing?_ [Sweltering heat. The ache of strained muscles and tired feet pounding against a wooden floor. The razzle-dazzle of trumpets and saxophones merging with the clip-clopping of high heels to the tune of the music. Gals in a-line skirts. Fellas stripping down to undershirts and suspenders, dark circles beneath their armpits from sweat. A boy. A thin boy sitting forlornly at the bar with a sketchpad. His fingers are dark with charcoal stains.]

The Asset rises so quickly medics scurry like cockroaches to get clear of him. His heart pounds. Pain behind his eyes intensifies. He squeezes said eyes closed, pinches the bridge of his nose, and by the time he finds his center, the report Novokov makes to the chairman is near completion.

“Single gunshot to the frontal lobe. Through and through. Couldn't collect the casing, Sir.” Novokov sounds like the chatter of angry chipmunks to the Asset.

SINGLE GUNSHOT TO THE FRONTAL LOBE. THROUGH AND THROUGH. COULDN'T COLLECT THE CASING, SIR. _Clumsy little shit (Asset Designation: CLS for short) shouldn't be trusted with sniper detail if he isn't good enough to collect his shell casings. Why was CLS sent on a high profile assassination while Asset has been chasing silly CIA buffoons around Moscow?_

More of the conversation slips past him while Asset struggles to maintain focus on present surroundings. When Pain In Head settles enough to concentrate, he centers his attention back on Mission Head and CLS.

“Confirmation of fatality?”

CLS opens his satchel and produces a folder containing reports that must satisfy the chairman. Death certificates most likely. Or coroner reports. The Asset is too far away to see the contents of said folder until CLS does something useful for a change and accidentally tilts it to a better angle. _Maybe Novokov can be reduced to Little Shit instead of previous designation?_

The Asset freezes in place upon seeing the photos atop the reports. A well-defined man wearing a uniform that is entirely too obnoxious to provide adequate camouflage. That is a conspicuous man designed to attract attention. _Obnoxious fucker was asking to be shot wearing that. No wonder the little shit managed a kill shot._ The shield. That perfect, miraculous shield.

Something whooshed up from his belly. [Cyclone. Coney Island. Someone retching into a trash can that smells thick with discarded hot dogs and the soft under-tang of half-rotten watermelon rinds.] Anxiety tightens needles around his esophagus. Breathing becomes harsh, like he's swallowed a nest of wasps that rattle around his lungs sting-stinging until he hardly remembers his designation let alone how he's meant to breathe.

His designation sounds hollow. Someone shouts it down a long tube, and the noise causes his brain to womp WOMP with pressure in the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Needles slam into his cheeks. His head lurches sideways, lips splattering saliva and a mouthful of blood on the nearest medic. _Dirty fucker should have backed up farther._

“Asset, report.” Tap-dancing toes on a hardwood floor.

“Mission success.” His voice is like rusty hinges creaking open. “Four confirmed kills. Three CIA agents. One defector. Three gunshots. Took out two at once. All shell casings collected.” At this, he moves his glance toward Novokov to lord his success over the little shit.

“Excellent work.” Tap-dancer exchanges a worried glance toward the Asset's handler, speaking without words, and the Asset is no bueno when it comes to understanding unspoken languages he hasn't been given a reference sheet for.

The Asset's secondary mission is canceled upon request of the chairman, and he's shuffled off to The Chair to be wiped and stored until further use. He can't determine if there is respect, horror, or pity in the little shit's expression, who watches the process behind the protection of thick glass. Protection is necessary. The Asset knows what's coming. The Asset fights. The Asset always fights. As usual, the Asset's fighting only prolongs the inevitable.

He's desperate to know how he gave away his defectiveness this time.

***

July 2018, the Asset malfunctions in media res while in pursuit of several Hydra agents carrying nanotechnology he's assigned to apprehend and return to his handlers. He thinks. Knew what he was supposed to be doing before that afternoon, before breaking into the home of the lead Hydra agent and seeing pamphlets for the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian, before seeing that face—that face—that face... Before seeing that face standing beside Captain America.

Bodies move through the shadows ahead of him, and it's more muscle memory than active Stream of Consciousness that surges him forward. Like a lion. Don't run from a stalking lion. They will only chase you faster. A pain zaps through his temple into the metal arm and makes its plates shiver and whir while grabbing an overhead door jam and swinging feet-forward into the back of the flagging Hydra agent. There's a soft crunch. The agent grunts and lands face-first on concrete flooring.

A lion's snarl emerges when he snaps the prey's neck and searches his rucksack. Doesn't find any of the vials of nanotechnology for his trouble. Mission parameters? _Too long since your last check-in, pal. Find your handlers. Stop the malfunction. Chair makes malfunction go away tout de suite. Nanotechnology first, it insists. Then check-in._

He bounds forward after the next available enemy combatant and skids around a corner where he finally catches sight of another target. The shot is complicated by the target's attempt to hide behind machinery that gives off a wet chemical smell, but he's made worse. A series of light-speed mental calculations adjusts for the angle and surface strength. He makes the shot, ricochets the bullet off the flat metal fixture behind the hiding target so that it recoils into the woman's back at the base of her skull. She never sees it coming. Another quick check of the agent's gear turns up nothing interesting. _Unhelpful. Hydra fucker is unhelpful._

Back on his feet, he tears after the receding figures. They're quick for non-enhanced combatants but no match for the speed of his legs acting like pistons against the floor. Why is he after the nanotechnology? _Doesn't matter. They're moving. Chase them._ Handlers must have assigned the mission for a purpose, and he's not about to allow himself to careen headlong into a mission failure.

He grabs a column supporting the roof ridge-line, swings around it, and plants both heels into the chest of another Hydra goon. It's like being hit by a battering ram. There's enough force behind the blow that it breaks the enemy's ribs, causes the broken bone to puncture a lung, and will lead to suffocation from a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. _Deserves it._ And ain't that right? The goon still isn't carrying the vials he needs.

More sprinting. Wishes he'd strapped on ice skates to glide across a frozen rink like Evgeni Plushenko. It would help him hunt them down faster. Another mook goes down. Still no tech.

He's en route to chasing down another Wildebeest when considerable weight impacts against his side. The Asset stumbles and careens into a vat of something that falls and sends paint splattering across the floor. A pulley overhead suspending from thick chains rocks back and forth. Mission functionality melts into a haze. [The Pit and the Pendulum perches on his lap. Tip of his thumb tucked between white teeth. The apartment door opens. It bangs against the wall. He jumps sky-high, prompting rich laughter from the small man from the dance hall.] Avoiding the pulley makes combat boots slide through wet paint. He loses balance and winds up smeared green while scrambling back to his feet.

Rage from falling mid-mission produces his sidearm. He shoots the fucker who slammed a trolley into him point blank between the eyes. Brain matter makes abstract art against the opposing wall. _We'll name it Beauty in Gray, Pal. Better catch the rest before they get away._ Mission malfunction. Hearing the internal voice means its been too long since his last maintenance. Must return to base. His vision grays out along the sides. He must fight to return focus to combat.

The Asset curses. In Russian.

The head to this particular hydra has made good his momentary lapse in mission functionality by bounding toward the factory's main door. If she makes it through the doors, there are extraction vehicles waiting to whisk her and his goddamned nanotechnology to safety.

He grabs the trolley that earlier knocked him from his feet and slings it with as much force as the metal arm can manage. That's a lot of force. When the trolley crashes into her, she's flung sideways and impacts against a vat of paint. A soft crunching sound rasps into the quiet, the breaking of glass as something slips free of her rucksack. The Asset cringes. _Who wants to place bets that was the vials containing the nano-processors that just shattered?_ Ephemeral ghosts flit across his mind's eye, faces he has no names for and smoke that wafts in phantom smells up his nostrils. [Flames lick around logs gleaned from the heavy forest. Bawdy jokes told over a game of cards. A Limey raises him three cigarettes. A baritone voice admonishes them for staying up so late when they have mission readiness tomorrow. The Limey winds up three cigarettes lighter. The baritone voice tuts at them to go to bed.]

The Asset stumbles past the downed combatant in his malfunction haze, metal hand extended until he knocks into a wall. His forehead impacts against it once, twice, a third time, and the pain chases away the ghosts and phantom smells to allow him to return focus to the mission. What mission? He stumbles to the dead Hydra agent. There's broken glass on the edges of the tub of paint. Red paint sits idle, awaiting the morning shift that will spin machinery back into motion to fill tubes of oil paints, tubes that contain... something. Tubes that contain woodsmoke and raucous teasing about the smell of Captain America's socks.

His handlers-- He needs his handlers. They will give him The Chair and the malfunction will stop, allowing him to return to the efficient machine that completes missions with cold-blooded accuracy rather than leaving him as the rabid lion uncertain of anything but the need to kill whatever moves. He needs The Chair. He needs the frozen wastes of home. He needs the malfunction to stop.

So he must drag himself back to the safe house like a bad dog, tail tucked between its legs and pulling its ass across the floor while whimpering for mercy. They won't take pity on him, of course. They never have mercy when his lapses in sanity get in the way of mission viability, and he wants to grab them by their shirt collars, shake them until their teeth rattle and scream “Why am I broken?” He doesn't want to be broken. He wants to make them proud so they'll reward him with a cheeseburger and fries instead of tasteless protein bars and nutrient shakes, wants the taste of salt and grease heavy on his tongue and weighing it down until its saturated with flavor, with something concrete that will ground him in the present. He wants-- Want is a sign of brokenness.

The Asset drags his feet while walking back into town, back into the suddenly-not-quiet streets of some town he doesn't know the name for and to what was once an old pharmacy building. The safe house containing his handlers is located in the basement behind several blast doors that require optic and fingerprint scans. It contains The Chair and Home. It's... currently engulfed in fire.


	2. Rusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds himself in a precarious situation with a certain Russian assassin.

Breath whistles past Steve's constricted airways as he sags into the bare brick wall behind the gallery. Bold letters on a banner around front proclaim the event the “Steven G. Rogers Gala for New Talent.” Some would say his name and connection to Jacques Dernier earned him a coveted place amongst the other artists. Maybe they are right, a thought that dangles the carrot in front of his asthma. He huffs.

Rapid footsteps approach from down the alley, and his younger sister, Jamie Buchanan Roberts (15), shoves an inhaler into his beseeching hand. One puff screeches his airways open like a rusted bear trap. Two puffs is like breathing through thick peanut butter. Three puffs is breathing through linen. His shoulders finally sag, and he squeezes Jamie's hand with gratitude.

“Jeeze, Stevie, thought I lost you there for a sec,” she says. “You would forget your head if it weren't firmly attached.” A fond smile greets him as she straightens his tie and collar for the hundredth time.

“Sorry. Nerves.”

“Don't listen to that blockhead. George had no right to say that to you. He's only jealous because he wouldn't know a Van Gogh from a Jackson Pollock. Here. I want you to have this.” She produces a worn rosary from her pocket and presses it carefully into his hand.

“I can't take this, Jamie.”

“Just for tonight, okay? Mom would want you to have it tonight.” Fresh grief spills across her face like a fountain. Fifteen is too young to lose your parents and live hand to mouth under the guardianship of your starving artist and barista big brother.

“Just for tonight,” he finally agrees and kisses the crucifix before tucking it into the pocket of his suit jacket. “I think it's time. Kiss for luck?”

The dark-headed teen doesn't need to tippy-toe in order to press a kiss to his cheek. “Luck schmuck. You don't need no luck, Pal. Go knock 'em dead.”

His stomach flip-flops like an elephant on a trampoline, and he allows Jamie to pin the artist ribbon to his jacket before heading inside. The smell of fresh paint soothes the weary soul. People drone in the back of the gallery while making final preparations for the general public to arrive. He completed his preparations weeks ago. And checked them thirty times. Until Jamie insisted he sit down before he wore a hole in his shoes from pacing.

Part of him wants to run out of the gallery screaming like that freak-a-zoid, Dr. Doom, is tailing him. Spending the night with Jamie on their threadbare couch helping her finish her science project sounds better than a night surrounded by strangers telling him that he doesn't deserve his name. Captain America's shoes are too big to fill, not that he ever wants to try.

Finally, the doors open, and the gallery floods with guests. It takes a stern look from the gallery owner to move him onto the main showcase floor to mingle. He spends long moments fussing over the appropriate angle of his centerpiece before stopping to answer a few questions. His presentation is comprised mainly of pencil and charcoal showcasing a wide range of styles. 

He's particularly proud of the sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge, but the centerpiece is a bold retelling of that same bridge engulfed in flames during the height of the Chitauri Incident. Iron Man's vivid armor streaks overhead in vibrant reds and golds. A spike of adrenaline threatens another asthma attack upon remembering seeing the burning bridge from the window of his mother's apartment.

The country still hasn't fully recovered from the battle. Without a distinct leader to rally behind, the Avengers' attempts to halt the spread of the aliens wasn't timely enough to save Manhattan, and the island still struggles through repairs. Even the rest of the five boroughs suffered tremendously. The battle raged all the way down the eastern seaboard before being halted near Charleston, South Carolina.

After a good hour of cruising the gallery, Steve's anxiety eases into something more comfortable, at least comfortable enough he doesn't feel the need for a convenient hole to swallow him into the basement. The trickle of sweat along his hairline has dried. He manages to smile up until seeing the strawberry hair and razor-sharp fashion of a woman moving through the gallery floor.

Ms. Pepper Potts, famed CEO of Stark Industries and curator of the Stark Collection of Fine Arts.

His palms are damp when she makes the rounds and appears in front of his presentation. She leans forward to study the oil painting of the bridge, smiles, and introduces herself. Naturally, she wants to shake hands. That's just perfect.

“You're work is finely detailed, Mister...”

“Roberts, Ma'am. Steven G. Roberts.”

She smiles as though attempting to swallow laughter. “Don't you ma'am me, Mister Roberts. Inferno and Hope.” She indicates the oil painting. “Your asking price?”

The very idea of Mister Stark owning his painting causes the return of that awful flip-flopping of his stomach. His mouth becomes sand paper. “Three thousand, Ma--” Saved from making a fool of himself. “Three thousand, Miss Potts.”

Attention refocuses on the fine brush strokes he invested hours of his life into. Ms. Potts tuts against her teeth. “How long did you spend on this piece?”

“I've been working on it off and on for two years, ever since the incident happened.”

“You've undervalued yourself, Mister Roberts. These brush strokes and the color blending are top quality. Particularly fine are the wet into wet strokes of the flames. It brilliantly captures the intensity of the moment. I will offer you ten thousand. Not a penny less.”

Shock foibles his sense of balance, and he nearly loses it like Johnny Weir at the Olympics. “T-thank you, Ms Potts. I believe you have yourself a deal.” Euphoria cracks his voice. Ten thousand dollars will go a long way toward Jamie's college fund.

They shake on it, and Miss Potts leaves the gallery some minutes later, allowing Steve a few seconds to break into a swing dance with Gail Harper, the artist next to him. He doesn't care if he looks a fool after becoming ten thousand dollars richer and having a place in Tony Stark's collection.

But because the universe likes to rain on Steven Grant parades, he should be less startled than he is by an explosion of violence. The main doors cave inward, and a man wearing a black mask across the bottom of his face charges in with an automatic rifle drawn. A spray of bullets causes bits of ceiling tiles to snow from overhead. His hair is a wild mane. His eyes are blank slate. He doesn't look the sort to be reasoned with, and Steve wouldn't attempt so, especially not after noticing the metal arm exposed by his tactical jacket only having one sleeve.

Security at the event attempts to impede his progress. Two receive critical injuries when the homicidal cyborg blasts their kneecaps out. Without security there to protect them, the guests panic, something that upsets the gunman to the point his eyes unhinge toward wildness.

Steve is pretty sure he has rabies. Or is in the midst of an epic 'roid rage.

It isn't until the cyborg grabs Ms. Harper and snarls something in her face in a foreign language that Steve's conscience won't allow him to bolt out the back door to get back to Jamie. He's fairly certain he won't be able to live with himself if the gunman murders Ms. Harper when he's standing three feet away. Those dreams aren't nightmares he can live with.

“Stop!” He hurries forward.

The man barks something.

Steve recognizes the sharp command from his Russian classes. He's a bit rusty, so he sounds rather watery when he says in Russian, “Stop. Don't hurt anyone.”

The gunman's head whips up, and he rattles off such rapid-fire words Steve's rudimentary Russian is quickly spent. He's only completed two semesters of the language.

“Speak slowly.” He should tack something else on the end of that. “Please.” Pretty sure the beta-blockers he took that morning won't ease the sudden pounding of his bad heart this time.

“Do you know where I can buy some French cigarettes?”

Steve feels his face pull into the “WTF” expression, all squinty-eyed and lip-curled. “No idea. Vape shop on Fifth Avenue?” He doesn't know the Russian for “vape,” so that word comes out English.

Terminator scowls, so that is clearly the wrong answer. “Freighter. Red. Nine. Alpine.”

Steve's shoulders slump, as he's fairly certain he's going to be killed now, and then what will Jamie do? “Please, don't shoot.”

The gunman looks like his soul has been crushed. Fingers clutching Ms. Harper's jacket loosen just enough for the woman to wriggle out of his grasp, at which point, she tears off toward the back where the rest of the people are crouched. A hard glance flicks in their direction. The metal arm produces a soft whirring sound as plates re-arrange.

“No.” Steve shifts to place his five feet four inches between the crazed gunman and the others. His heart flutters awkwardly, then, causing a hiccup in his brave face. He pushes it aside and extends a hand toward the man like that will keep him from advancing. “Look at me. My name's Steve. What's yours?”

“Asset.”

“Really?”

The man nods once.

“Don't shoot.” What he wants to say is more complex than his grasp of Russian, so he reverts to broken ideas instead of full sentences. “Baby sister. Parents dead. Don't shoot. She needs me.” Now he knows how Asians and First Peoples feel having to watch themselves portrayed in media as morons who can't speak proper sentences.

More rapid-fire Russian spills from behind the entirely intimidating black mask.

“Slow down.”

Frustration tightens Asset's eyes. “You are not a handler.”

“I'm an artist.”

The man's attention returns to what might be a small computer screen built into the underside of his metal arm. He waves it in the direction of the paintings on display on the back wall like he might be taking readings with some sort of sensor.

Steve doesn't mind so much if the terrorist goes in that direction away from the guests. His heart thuds another reminder of his worsening arrhythmia. Damn genetics. A moment of deja vu weakens his knees. [A wide, warm palm against his chest. Soft cursing. “Stevie, we gotta get you to a hospital. Your heart's about to beat out of your chest!” “Can't. Haven't paid the bill up from last time.”]

The gunman stops in front of Steve's oil painting. A soft buzz emanates from the prosthetic.

Steve gets a very bad feeling. It's what Jamie refers to as the “no mas pantalones” feeling.

“Who made this?”

Words freeze in Steve's throat. To reveal himself is to risk Jamie's future.

“Who?” It's snarled this time and accompanied by another spray of bullets tearing through the ceiling. People nearby whimper. They cover their heads. Someone vomits with fear.

He can't hold his tongue any longer, not when the lunatic suddenly stomps toward them with a look promising a horrific death if his question isn't answered.

“Me!” Steve yelps. “I painted.”

Asset leveling the full brunt of his fury on Steve convinces Steve there's a ninety-nine percent probability he won't live until the morning. All he can think about is Jamie. She'll be shuffled into the foster care system. A startling number of kids don't survive the foster care system these days. It's the last thing he thinks before the Asset sprays something in his face. Blackness engulfs him.

***

_Safe houses gone. Handlers gone. What's a fella gotta do to get a little love around here?_ The Asset shakes like a dog to throw clumps of hair from over his eyes. His full concentration rests on the painting on the floor of the abandoned apartment he's taken shelter in. Nearby, String Bean sleeps off the drug on a pitiful mattress that bears too many stains to count.

A spackling knife scrapes the dried paint to remove the harder outer crust. The sensor in his arm buzzes stronger as it reads information from the microscopic computer chips that comprise the nanotechnology he's been hunting. Still doesn't know why it's so important to find them. Can't remember his mission briefing, not after entering the apartment of his target and seeing a magazine with his own face printed on it. _Not quite your own face, pal._

Which is true. The face on the magazine cover was clean-shaven and younger, more carefree. Beside Asset Jr stood a man with broad shoulders carrying a shield. Pain In the Eyes shredded his frontal lobes, then, and he forgot his mission briefing. Hazy ghosts dance behind his eyes whenever he closes them. He can't figure where he's seen the shield-man before.

So Asset has reverted back to a previous mission setting insisting he find the nanotechnology Hydra stole from the KGB. _Tentacled bastards always putting their noses where they don't belong._ He wants to devote more energy to finding every tentacle and severing them from the head. With gross prejudice. What's a head without its arms? Nothing to be afraid of.

Isolating the processors from the paint will cause a different sort of pain behind the eyes. Impatience. He scrapes more loose trying to clear the signal for his on-board computer to communicate with them, drops the paint into a solution that will dissolve it but leave the processors behind, and Magpie finally chirps. She makes contact with the processors to download their stored files. Dousing the whole canvas in the solution would be quicker. He isn't sure why the idea of destroying it repulses him.

_You have some idea, blockhead._ [Scratch scratch of a pencil against thick paper. A blonde head bowed over a sketchbook. Bony shoulders tense. Knobby skeleton curved in a way that will surely make Skinny Man's back ache the rest of the night. Does Skinny Man listen to his cajoling? No.]

The sudden rush of images sends him scrambling away from the painting like its an electric eel. He balls himself into the corner of the creaky old sofa, breath sounds doubling and heart rate quadrupling. Without really considering his actions, he opens his flesh palm and runs a metal finger down the center from the tip of his middle digit to the base of his palm.

“Magpie, magpie cooked the porridge. Fed it to the little children.” He uses the metal finger to bend a flesh finger toward the palm. “She gives to this one. She gives to that one.” He continues that ritual with four of his fingers until coming to his pinkie. That one, he bends back painfully until wet stings the backs of his eyes. “She does not give to this one. You have not brought water. You have not chopped firewood. There is nothing for you.”

The ritual causes his bottom lip to tremble. “There is nothing for you.” 

Shivers race up his spine, and he closes both arms around his knees, feeling lonely and unworthy. How can a broken asset be worthy of their trust? _No wonder they left you in the cold, pal. Nobody wants something what's broken._ A hand swipes across his eyes. It comes away damp with the evidence of his weakness, the evidence of his deterioration from fighting prime to something else, something wholly unacceptable when all he wants to do is go home. Home is a round chamber that brings numbness from the ghosts. Until he brings them the nanotechnology to prove himself, he can't go home.

Sounds from the bed make him stutter back to the present, and he glances from under his mop of dirty hair at String Bean. He doesn't remember the man's name. There is a blank wall where that information should be stored.

String Bean sits up. The effects of the gas send him racing toward the toilet against the wall where he heaves his guts into the porcelain bowl. At least there is running water. The man uses the tap to splash water on his face once he's through.

Asset watches him through wary eyes.

Something like horror puts a mask over the man's face. He must be remembering the events leading up to him waking in a dingy apartment. Their eyes meet, slate against robin's egg. String Bean tenses and moves back several steps while shooting furtive glances over his shoulder at the door.

“Stay.”

The man shakes his head. “You have to let me go. Please. My sister needs me. I'm the only one she has left. She has a science project due Friday. Her name is Jamie. Her class has a field trip soon to Ellis Island. It's finally reopening after the alien invasion. I'm supposed to be a chaperone.”

Asset presents his open palm, fingers toward the ceiling, in an effort to stop the flow of words. He shakes his head for emphasis and to clear his head. Why does he understand the words without being able to speak them? _Jeepers, Chucklehead, maybe it's 'cause you're self-flagellating to avoid facing reality._ A soft growl rumbles his chest, and he balls up a fist.

String Bean scuttles away.

Asset doesn't hit String Bean. Instead, he presses his knuckles against his temple in the vain hope of stopping the tirade of thoughts. He shouldn't be having thoughts. He should be focusing on mission, working to get back home again. Home is quiet. Home is peace.

String Bean cringes upon retreating his back into a wall, at which point, he wheezes for breath. “This can't be happening. This. Cannot. Be. Happening.” He fumbles in his pocket, winds up dropping something that clatters against the floor, stoops to retrieve it, and presses it to his mouth.

Asset is off the sofa and across the room in a matter of seconds. He snatches the object in one hand while the metal one closes around String Bean's throat. Hydra mooks have fake teeth containing cyanide. They crunch and cause rumbly in their tumblies rather than being apprehended, taking their intelligence to the grave. It's simple logic to think maybe String Bean has something similar in his container, so Asset inspects it.

“Hey, I need that!” His breathing deteriorates.

Albuterol rescue inhaler, the label on the cylinder reads. There are no memories or knowledge of what chemicals comprise the device. He's never heard of it before, but String Bean's breathing continues to sound labored. He seems desperate to return to his sister, therefore, the likelihood of suicide seems small. Finally, he release's the man's neck and thrusts the inhaler back into his hand.

A couple of puffs ease the whistle of String Bean's lungs. “Look, if you aren't going to let me go, then you need to get me something to eat or my sugar is going to crash. I need my heart medication, too. Do you even understand what I'm saying?”

Asset nods once only to shake his head when he thinks better of agreeing. He doesn't understand, not really. Heart medication? Sugar crashing? They are things he's never encountered before. [Wheezing breath. Ragged coughing. The fear and terror of watching Skinny Man collapse to the ground in the middle of Coney Island because they spent their hot dog money on a stupid boat ride instead, and Skinny Man needs food; he needs it now before his diabetes results in a coma.]

“Hey, hey, calm down okay? Just take deep breaths and maybe sit on the sofa, because if you fall down, I can't pick you back up.”

_Calm down? I am perfectly calm, Chucklehead._ It's only moments later that he realizes his hands make like his lungs and wobble. Takes him a minute to find his center before he looks back toward String Bean. Something familiar about the man catches in his brain. Like cat hair on wet hands.

“Your name.”

I already told you at the art exhibit."

"Tell me again. My brain is broken."

“Steve.” Fingers press against the other man's chest.

“Steve.” 

Something isn't quite accurate about the name. His mind rebels at the idea of it, and he finds himself perched at the edge of a vortex again. Looks down into darkness. The dark shouldn't terrify him. He's a creature of it, a ghost spat up from the depths of some morbid nightmare sent to stalk the dreamer, to stalk relentlessly until you scream without making sound and run without moving forward.

The darkness frightens him.

“Steve,” repeats the Asset. He can't remember. It's a scab he can't stop picking at.

“Yeah. Me Steve; you Jane.” String Bean makes a monkey noise and mimes scratching beneath his armpits. His hands whip forward to fend off the Asset. “Okay. You can be Tarzan, and I'll be Jane.”

“Stop talking.”

“But seriously. I don't know why you kidnapped me instead of killing me, but if you want me alive, you have to feed me and get me my heart medication.”

Asset steps closer to the painting and points to it. “You painted this. Where is the rest of the paint?”

Fresh horror pools in the man's eyes. He puts several steps worth of distance between them. “Oh no. No, no, no. I'm not telling you where the paint is. Bad enough I'm here being threatened with death. Doesn't matter what you do to me, but I'm not letting you within a mile of Jamie.”

A threatening growl ought to work to push String Bean backward, to intimidate him into surrendering the necessary information. It doesn't. The blockhead stands his ground with arms crossed over his chest and jaw lifted slightly into a stubborn angle.

“Glare all you want. I would rather stand right here and look you in the eye when you rip my spine out of my bunghole than to let you anywhere near Jamie. Forget it.”

Anger burns hot. Asset flips a table, sending used food and drink containers gleaned from the garbage scattering. It's insane the amount of food Americans waste. _Never would have happened back in our day, pal._ Food was too scarce to throw away. So he flips a table, kicks an empty propane tank across the floor, and generally makes a mess of his living space like a five year old.

“Um. Do you need a time out?”

Cold eyes counterbalance his hot temper as he glares at String Bean. _Pal, I graduated from time outs when your ma was kicking her ma in the bladder._ The plates of his arm whir as they shift into tighter tensile strength.

Impasse. Time for a new angle of questioning.

“Where did you purchase the paint?”

“Artist and Craftsman Supply down on Metropolitan Avenue.”

Asset locates a considerable supply of zip ties, and it's with a greater sense of satisfaction than he thought it should normally be that he shackles String Bean to the radiator to ensure the very reluctant mission assist can't run while he's on his errand. He decides to be more cordial than normal by not tightening the zips to such an extent that the mission assist's fingers might go numb. _We deserve a pat on the back for that kindness, pal._

He takes enough time to drag on a jean jacket and a dirty baseball cap and check his knives before leaving the apartment. The young man's glare is colored with something indeterminable that would usually suggest mischief. How much mischief could one artist zip-tied to a radiator cause, though?

***

Steve figures he's going to wet himself before the end of the day what with the way Tall, Dark, and Scary keeps drifting in and out of reality. Long pauses between when he's actively engaged in terrifying the bejesus out of him are interspersed with interludes where he goes frighteningly quiet and introspective. He isn't sure if that's worse than waking up to find the man curled into the corner of the sofa looking positively wrecked and on the verge of tears.

Usually, he tries not to diagnose people when he has neither a medical degree nor a psychiatric degree. Things like that should be left to Dr. Phil. Neither does he like to make fun of people with mental illnesses by throwing around labels willy nilly, but Asset has some serious issues that require immediate medical and psychological intervention. Pronto. And maybe a shock collar.

He only relaxes by tiny increments once the gunman leaves. Standing to bring his hands even with his pocket, he works at jimmying phone from pants. There's a terrible moment when the phone dangles, unbalanced, against his fingers and damn near plummets to the ground. Saved by ambidextrous fingers. A heavy breath stoppers his lungs when a noise outside the apartment door makes him freeze.

Long seconds tick by, but nothing comes of the sound.

He hits the shortcut to Jamie's phone. The call goes straight to voice mail. “Jamie, I'm being held prisoner by a terrorist. I need you to leave the apartment. Get a few things and the emergency money from inside the toilet tank. There's a number in the plastic baggie with the money. Call that number. You're going to talk to a guy named Tim Dugan. He fought with Grandpa during the war. Get a bus ticket to Canada. He'll meet you somewhere to pick you up. The terrorist might come to the house--”

Anything else he had to say is cut off by Asset's sudden return.

Steve freezes but can't get his phone concealed before the terrorist locks eyes with him. Busted.

Lips pulling into a snarl, the other man stomps across the distance separating them. “Knew you were up to something funny.”

A yelp escapes when the Asset snatches his phone and breaks it in half against the radiator. Even goes so far as dumping the remains in the toilet and flushing, taking with it any chance of the authorities locating him via the internal GPS. Because of course his day could get worse than waking in a strange place feeling like ass and kept company by a deranged gunman. There is some relief in having gotten a message to Jamie's in-box.

“Yeah, you're tough and powerful what with kidnapping a guy a hundred and fifty pounds lighter than you and unable to defend himself. If my hands weren't zip-tied to this radiator, I'd punch you right in the nose. And hope I broke it.” There may or may not be a tinge of hysteria coloring his outburst.

“Stop talking.”

“Or what? You'll pull my tongue out with a pair of pliers?”

Asset looks in various directions before finding a wad of filthy cloth from the corner.

Steve regrets his mouth the second he finds the cloth stuffed inside it, and for good measure, the Asset makes use of a roll of duct tape to ensure he can't spit the cloth free. Good thing he doesn't have a cold, or he will suffocate from having his mouth jammed full of something that tastes like dust and the faint undertone of dirty feet. All he can do is glare.

Eventually, he sinks to the floor and drops into a light doze after his kidnapper stomps back out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard on the way out that debris flutters down from the ceiling. The last thing he can remember thinking is to worry about what will happen if he has an asthma attack from choking on dust and mummified toe jam.

The sun has set when he jerks awake to the sound of a key rattling in the doorknob. Asset enters into the darkness, his silhouette illuminated by moonlight streaming in through a window. The sound of rustling bags comes as no comfort, as he's instantly tense to the point of feeling sick. His body is brittle glass; one small tap will shatter him into a zillion pieces.

A lantern flares. The Asset moves across to draw thick curtains over the windows after looking out into the alley and up toward the parapets of the building flanking the apartment complex. Only after securing the premises does the gunman approach. He flicks a knife blade from its handle.

Steve can hear himself whimpering around the gag and through the duct tape, pulls against his restraints to no avail, and for as much bravado as he displayed earlier by proclaiming he would die before giving up information on Jamie's location, he doesn't actually want to die. He has so much left to do with his life. Said life flashes behind his eyes as time slows to minuscule increments.

It comes as a surprise, though, that Asset is gentle with cutting the duct tape and the zip ties. Steve immediately wrenches his hands free to tear the makeshift gag from his mouth, at which point, he slides to the toilet to spit as much as he can with a mouth dry as the Sahara. Not much comes out which leads to the second surprise of the evening. A bottle of Gatorade is brushed against his cheek.

The touch causes a strange flip-flop in his stomach that has nothing to do with nausea and everything to do with feeling like he's experienced something like this before. 

[“Fuck's sakes, you're burning up, Stevie.” “Just don't feel well is all.” “We have to get you cooled down. Doc says the fever gets high enough and your brain could go stupid. Not that it isn't already, you know.” Cool and wet against his forehead, around his throat, under his armpits. What little ice remains in the icebox rattling into a glass cup and shocking its way down his spine. More cool and wet at his groin, between his legs, down his thighs. “Stop looking at me like that, pal. Doc says we gotta cool your blood at the major veins. Carotid, femoral, brachial.”]

Vomit fountains into the toilet. To be more precise, stomach acid fountains into the toilet, considering there's nothing in his stomach but acid to come up. It's accompanied by confusion. He doesn't know why he remembers things that never actually happened to him, only knows that touch and familiar voices echo like a kaleidoscope of broken memories. Is he haunted? Maybe he's being haunted.

The frigid bottle touches his neck again, and he finally snatches it to rinse his mouth. Only then does he guzzle deeply. Electrolytes go a long way toward perking him up, but a whole day without food and medication has taken a toll. Suddenly flooding his system with calories winds up making him feel worse than before, so it's something of a miracle when Asset shakes a bag at him that is decorated with the familiar golden arches.

He's like a starving mongrel presented with a steak: scrambles over to take the offered bag so he can tear into the Big Mac, fries, and apple pie inside. Speaking waits until he's filled his aching stomach. He refuses to feel gratitude toward the terrorist who is the soul cause of his present misery.

It isn't until he's consumed half the burger and most of the fries that he realizes Asset is staring at him, and he asks, “Did you get anything for you?” Then he wants to clobber himself senseless for remotely caring about the shaggy-headed, haunted-eyed TERRORIST.

Asset seems surprised. He shakes a protein bar in the air.

There's that stupid inner good Samaritan rearing its awful, awful head again. “Come on. You need more than that to keep a body like yours going.” A new thought hits him then, and he wonders if maybe the Asset doesn't have a good source of cash flow, and maybe he spent his liquid assets on making sure Steve is fed instead of feeding himself. He has no idea where that idea came from. [“Not hungry tonight, Stevie. Eat the rest of mine so it doesn't go to waste.” “You sure, Buck?” A head crowned with thick, sable hair nods, so he reaches across the table to take the remaining chili dog. Gut gurgles delightfully at having just that extra amount of calories.]

For fuck's sake, he wails to himself before wrapping up the rest of his burger and pushing it across the table to the –TERRORIST!-- other man. “My stomach's heavy from throwing up. Eat the rest of mine so it doesn't go to waste.”

The man's eyes become far-away suddenly, glazed with memory and uncertainty and probably not a small amount of surprise. So it takes him a minute to acknowledge the proffered food. When he takes it, his movements are stilted, tentative. Then he turns away to hide himself in a corner while filling his mouth as fast as he can.

Steve just feels sick. The man has kidnapped him, threatened him, starved him, bound him, and gagged him with a mummified sock, but seeing the way his shoulders are hunched and the hunger with which he shoves the rest of the burger in his mouth wrenches Steve's heart. Jamie and him volunteer at soup kitchens together. It's the same kind of hunger he sometimes sees from some of the old veterans who come in, half-starved but unwilling to believe they're worth enough for a free meal.

He lets the man eat in silence.

They don't speak again until Asset has finished, at which point, Steve asks, “Did you find what you were looking for at the art store?”

Asset shakes his head.

“Hey, can you maybe turn around and talk to me?”

Another shake of that filthy head.

“Okay, but we can't avoid each other as long as you're keeping me here. I want to go home, and you seem to need something from me. Why don't we talk about what you need so that you're comfortable enough letting me go home?” He could hear his ma lilting in her French accent, telling him that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

He says something in Russian.

“I'm sorry, but that's not a word I understand. I only took two semesters of Russian.”

He tries again, saying, “Paint.” And he indicates the painting with a sweep of his metal hand.

“You need paint? Hell, I can go buy you some paint right now.”

Another head-shake combined with the tension of a body gone frustrated. When he can't think of a way to describe what he wants to say in basic Russian, he beckons Steve closer, close enough for him to see some of the plates on Asset's prosthetic arm to shift. Gears lift a computer screen to the surface. Passing the arm near the painting causes a soft buzzing and information in Cyrillic to appear onscreen.

“So it's only this particular kind of paint that you're looking for?”

A snap of the fingers and a nod of the head to indicate he guessed correctly.

“I could get you the remainder of the paint from my apartment, but I won't risk you getting near my sister. If you want me to get it, you have to let me go alone. Then I'll bring it back to you, and we can part ways. Won't even tell the cops about you. Scout's honor.” Which is a farce, because he has never been a boy scout. He hates their begrudging tolerance of guys like him.

That prompts an immediate denial.

“Well, it was worth a shot.”

Suddenly feeling spent, he collapses onto the crusty sofa, an act which requires a second use of his inhaler to counteract the motes of dust making like Vesuvius in the air upon his impact. They're quiet for a while. Nothing disturbs the silence but the distant sound of a television and a couple arguing a few apartments down from them.

His eyes jerk back open as Asset finally comes out of the corner long enough to get a bottle of water and eat his protein bar, but it isn't long until he helps himself to a sleeping bag to curl up. “Stay. I will awaken if you try to run.”

A few more minutes of quiet follow.

Steve finally asks, “Is your name really Asset?”

The other man is quiet so long that Steve figures he's not going to answer. Finally, in a small voice, he says, “Weapons don't need names.”

It takes Steve a while to read between the lines, to trace the path of logic from what Asset said to what he actually meant. If weapons don't need names, then Asset is a weapon. Weapons need someone to choose a target. They need someone to point them, someone to pull the trigger. Unlike normal weapons, the Asset is aimed and fired while the wielder hides somewhere safe, leaving their attack dog to face the consequences of a misfire. The Asset feels like a weapon. He's a Pit Bull trained to fight or a Rottweiler trained to protect the junkyard, but when the police inevitably arrive, it's the dogs who get the bullet while their masters get the slap on the wrist.

“That's really sad,” he says a few minutes later.

***

Jamie's already called the hospitals and police precincts by eight in the morning when she's darn near pulling her hair out with worry. Steve didn't come home last night. There was some sort of incident at the art gallery, and Steve didn't come home. Worse still, no one will tell her anything, not the first responders or the police precincts, so she's hovering right on the edge of freaking the fuck out—she crosses herself to apologize for the bad language—and having some sort of convulsive fit.

Mostly, she just doesn't know what to do.

After her tenth trip to the toilet to empty her nervous stomach, she returns to see a new message in her voicemail inbox. Adrenaline spikes. She comes this close to breaking her ankle flailing across the thrift store coffee table to grab the darned thing. The message, despite her brother sounding fairly calm, does nothing to ease her panic. Captured by a terrorist? And he expects her to just pack up and leave town while he's having his fingernails ripped out?

She winds up sitting Lotus style on the coffee table staring at her phone for an undetermined amount of time. Can't be too long considering the shadows in the room haven't changed. She refuses to sit on the sofa. It's her brother's bed, the brother who was captured by a terrorist last night, the brother who works his fingers raw down at the Hungry Ghost serving coffee and pastries to keep a roof over their head and her tuition paid so she can get a good education and make something of herself even though he could have let her go into foster care after their ma died but didn't because he's the most incredible brother on the face of the planet and oh God what if the terrorist kills him, the same brother who sleeps on the couch so she can have the privacy of the single bedroom in their tiny one-bedroom loft space, the same brother who read stories to her growing up while their ma was out busting her ass—she crosses herself to apologize for the rough language—working doubles as a nurse to make sure her kids had more than she had growing up, and oh God, what if the terrorist kills him?

Sobbing, she rocks while sitting atop the coffee table, because her brother is probably dead already, what with the way he runs his mouth whenever the wind changes directions. The wind doesn't even need to change directions to get his motor-mouth going. Better to describe it as “what with the way pigeons breed in the city.” She just knows he's going to mouth off and get himself dead.

Right, she needs to think logically. Logic doesn't exist while her brother is being held prisoner BY A TERRORIST! He's going to die die die DIE! And then she'll be an orphan orphan orphan ORPHAN!

A soft whimper escapes.

Think, Bucket, she says to herself. There's an emergency stash of money in the toilet tank along with the number for Tim Dugan, who has to be, like, a hundred years old by now. How is a centenarian going to save her brother from terrorists?

First thing she does is get off the table. She gets distracted then by a painting in the corner that Steve's in the process of working on, and she doesn't know how she'll handle it if she never gets to come home from school to the smell of turpentine and oil paints to watch him bounce around on the balls of his feet to whatever silly hipster band he's obsessed with. This week, it's Neutral Milk Hotel. Next week? Boo knows. If she never gets to experience making fun of his music again, she doesn't know what she'll do.

Finally getting herself in gear, she zips into the bathroom to grab the emergency cash fund. If she knew she'd been taking a shit—she crosses herself again—this close to a thousand dollars, she could have bought those cool Converse Cam's been freaking about for the past month. Camilla is also going to freak the frack out when Jamie tells her that her brother was kidnapped by terrorists.

She doesn't call Dugan right away. Figures she'll do that when she has a bus ticket to Canada with some idea where she's going, so she packs a bag with the essentials, makes sure she has the important documents such as her social security card, ID, passport, and birth certificate, and Ma's photo album.

Her hand is on the doorknob, keys out to lock it behind her, when a knock vibrates the door, making her shriek and leap out of her skin. Proverbially speaking. What if it's the terrorist? An attempt to turtle herself into the neck of her sweater doesn't provide an answer as to how to handle the situation. That goes on long enough that another knock vibrates the panels.

Standing on tip-toe allows her to peek out the peep hole. The last thing she expects is the red, white, and blue uniform of Captain America. Beside him, there's a girl about her age wearing black shorts, a red beanie, and a blue shirt with a star in the center. If she's not mistaken, it's Miss America. Her face was all over the news a while ago when people started calling for restrictions on the Avengers' ability to operate independently. Being a hyperactive teenager, she doesn't remember many details.

The one thing she figures is that if she can't open the door for Captain America, then she can't open the door for anybody, so she leaves the chain latched and cracks the door so they can only see a sliver of her face. She figures the rest of her face is all googly with fear, but that one sliver can remain calm. Probably makes her look like a Picasso painting or something.

“Yeah?”

“Jamie Buchanan Roberts?” Captain America asks.

“Depends on who's asking.”

“Name's Sam Wilson. This is my friend, America Chavez. Could we come in and speak with you?”

“No, I think you're good right where you are.”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your brother has been--”

“Kidnapped by terrorists,” she finishes. “What are you gonna do about that, Mister Wilson?”

“Miss Roberts, I think we should talk about that with some degree of privacy, don't you? If you allow us to come inside, I'll let you hold my shield if that will make you feel safer. You know that nothing can penetrate this shield, right?”

Jamie gives him a look, glancing quickly between the pair. America just looks bored by everything and spends her time texting on a top-of-the-line Starkphone, light from the hall catching on a silver cuff-bracelet with flashing blue lights and embedded with gold highlights.

“That's a neat bracelet,” Jamie says.

Sam tenses.

America pops her bubblegum and looks at the bracelet with a detached coldness. “Yeah, I guess. You gonna leave us standing in the hall, or what?”

She takes a moment to think about the danger of letting them in the apartment, but what does she have to lose? It's either Captain America and Miss America or a centenarian douche-gobbler who probably reeks of Bengay and will bore the snot out of her with old war stories of her grandfather.

Finally, she unlatches the chain and opens the door for them. “Yeah. Come on in. Oh! Those Converse are kicking!” The other girl is sporting the Patbo Chuck Taylor high tops that are covered in floral prints. Jamie tries to swallow her jealousy and be a polite host.

America glaces down at her shoes. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Jealousy it is then. “I guess so?” she exclaims. “Those are, like, a hundred and forty dollar shoes! And you only guess that they're cool? I hate you. You are not allowed in my house.”

That certainly gets America's attention, and she glances up sharply, fingers dripping with rings pausing over the screen, the tinkling of the bangles on her wrist halting abruptly. Soft brown eyes glance toward Sam looking for something Jamie can't name. “I'm here with him. Only he can kick me out.”

“It's my apartment, I can--”

“Girls, is this really what we should be talking about right now?”

Jamie doesn't have the grace her ma gave her to look ashamed of herself. Nobody who can afford Patbo Converse and a Starkphone gets to disparage a fashion statement like they're just any old shoe dragged from the back of an overstuffed closet. Thousands of teenager girls the world over would kill for those shoes. Her included. Okay, maybe kill is too extreme a statement.

Whatever the case, she hits the coffee table on her backside and shrieks that they can't sit there when Sam and America start to lower themselves on the sofa. She doesn't even bother explaining herself, just redirects them to a pair of worn armchairs. A huff escapes. Curling her legs under her hides the worn soles of her own Converse.

“Miss Roberts, the Avengers are doing everything in their power to rescue your brother. We have a team in play as we speak tracking that call Steve made to you. With any luck, we'll have pinpointed his location by tomorrow morning at the latest and be ready to move in.”

She interrupted to say, “I thought you said I could hold your shield.”

“Yes, of course.”

Watching him remove the shield from where it was suspended from a harness on his back brought up painful memories of grainy old war footage. Seeing the first Captain America move was like watching her brother move, the same confident stride, the same sense that he needed so much more space to move through than his body made it seem. She'd grown up with the eerie feeling that her brother wasn't just her brother, that he was something more.

Her attention snapped back to her guests when Wilson held out the shield and called her name. Lips puckering, she snatched the thing, prepared to catch it with both hands. It was surprisingly light. She traced her fingertips along the outer edge, along the crimson border vibrant as a neon light in the dark. She looped the straps over her forearm and couldn't blink away the tears pricking her eyes.

“It's not fair, you know,” she whispered. “The guy spends forty years frozen in the Arctic, comes back, marries his best gal, and is then shot to death six months later. What did he even survive for?”

“For six months of happiness with the woman he loved,” Sam says kindly.

“It's still not fair.”

“No, it isn't. I met him once as a child. He was the kind of man who could move mountains with will alone. He's the kind of man the rest of us should aspire to.”

“You're gonna find Stevie, right?”

“Yes. In the meantime, we would very much like for you to come and stay with us. There is a real danger his kidnapper might come here, and if you're here at the same time, you would be directly in his path. That's not going to help Steve feel safe. Plus, you're only fifteen. We've got to make sure you stay in school and eat your three squares a day, you know.”

“Oh.” The way he was talking, he made it sound like they expected her to be with them for an extended period of time, but wasn't staying in New York better than going to Canada?

“You'll be rooming with America, here, so you won't be surrounded by a bunch of old people.”

Her glance narrowed, as she wasn't sure that was a plus or a minus.

America piped up, “Look, if you agree, I'll let you wear anything in my closet.”

“Why would you do something that nice?”

“I'm not nice. I just wanna get back to Manhattan before this goddamned ankle bracelet starts screaming at me again.”

Jamie's glance drops to a cuff encircling the other girl's ankle. A flashing light indicates an on board computer system. The light is yellow, and the flashes increase tempo over time. “What's that for?”

“Ask Mister Stark.”

“Will you come with us, Miss Roberts?”

“Doesn't seem like I have much of a choice, huh? Fine. Fine, let's go before Tall, Dark, and Grouchy over there starts bleeding black tears from her broken, goth soul.”


	3. Furnace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset must flee with his reluctant captive after an early morning raid on his safe house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of past sexual abuse in which Steve tries to define consent and rape for someone who has no concept of either. Hopefully I've done a passable job, but please read with caution if you're sensitive to said topics.
> 
> Also, I'm not a medical professional. All mentions of medication come from research. If I've gotten anything wrong, please feel free to point it out so I can fix it.

Steve doesn't remember falling asleep. He remembers waking to the bark of gunfire and the pepper of bullets sinking into plaster behind his head. A yelp escapes. Lurching causes the sofa to tip over backward, but at least that gives him a place to hide, something between his body and the holes blasting through wall slats and drywall.

Distant voices shout, “Hold fire until we have eyes on the hostage!”

Asset appears in his field of vision with a gun in hand and looking thoroughly unamused and perhaps slightly accusatory. He takes cover behind the sofa but doesn't return fire. Instead, he affixes something to his belt before jamming an anchor into the wall below the window.

Steve just shrugs off the accusation in an attempt to tell the terrorist with his body language that he has no freaking clue what's going on. Someone with Asset's sunny disposition probably attracts a host of people wanting to fill his body with lead. It's only a secondary realization when it dawns on him that he's being shot at. That does nothing for his bad heart and weak lungs.

Things deteriorate from there. A stray bullet pings off Asset's metal arm to lodge into the wall dangerously near Steve's head. Seconds later, a bullet makes it mark. Blood back-fills a hole that appears in the other man's jeans, blooming into a larger stain by the second.

That doesn't stop Tall, Dark, and Scary, though. He kicks out the window, shoulders a heavy bag, and wraps his metal arm around Steve. His intentions aren't at all clear until they lurch toward the window.

“Oh no! No, no, no! Please, I can't with the heights!” Abject fear takes over, causing him to claw helplessly at the other man's chest to try anything to get away from his kidnapper so he can streak toward the people shooting at Asset.

The door crashes inward. Someone tosses a canister that spews smoke into the apartment. The smoke makes him feel like his eyes are on fire, and tear tracks carve canyons down his cheeks from both the terror and the irritant. Naturally, the Asset doesn't miss a beat.

They bail out the window while he coughs and cries and drop unimpeded for a few feet before the line attached to Asset's belt snaps taught to halt their momentum with a jerk. Whiplash-ville, here they come. There's nothing for him to do but bury his face against the other man's neck and hold on for dear life. There's some screaming, too. Definitely screaming. Asset doesn't drop them gently. He repels them an entire storey at a time. Free fall then stop. Free fall then stop. 

The pattern repeats until they reach the alley pavement, at which point, Asset removes the drop line from his belt and grabs Steve's wrist to ensure his continued cooperation. Nearly having your wrist snapped with by a cyborg grip will do that to a person. Steve knows better than to fight.

Only when he notices the streak of light across the sky does he realize the people blasting up the apartment probably aren't hoodlums or a rival gang looking to kill Asset. It's the telltale wake of Iron Man's propulsion systems. It's like Alexander Pope says. _“Hope springs eternal in the human breast.”_

He digs in his heels. The Avengers might be looking for him, he supposes. Considering his relation to Jacques Dernier and the old Captain America, there's a sliver of a chance they'll consider him worthy enough for Avenger assistance, in which case, they might also have picked up Jamie. It's the only thing that keeps him from doing something drastic and going for Asset's gun while they're in close proximity.

“You have to let me go. Just stop and let me go. They'll keep following you as long as you have me.”

The blank mask deadening Asset's eyes doesn't register that he's spoken.

“Let me go! Help! Help!” He twists his arm in an effort to wrench himself free. Even goes so far as to punch a knee toward the terrorist's groin, but it impacts against a hard cup. His knee winds up hurting far more than his kidnapper's crotch, that's for sure.

When that doesn't work, he digs in his heels again and pummels the other man's chest. He even manages to get a few good hits in. Hitting that man's jaw is like hitting concrete, though, and in the end, he finds his arm twisted up behind his back and slammed face-first into the brick wall.

“Stop fighting, or I break your arm.”

Steve can't say when the fight turns to pure terror. All he knows is that trying to move Asset is like moving a mountain. No matter how hard he fights, his kidnapper can fight that much harder. His body takes the decision out of his hands, though, as the heavy tightness in his lungs bleeds into awful wheezing. Panic flares bright. He tries to suck air past his constricted lungs to no avail. The flutter of his heart is somehow worse. He suddenly feels like a race horse high on cocain.

His world doesn't go dark, but he sure as shoot can't continue struggling against his kidnapper and finds himself slung over the other man's shoulder. He can only watch the pavement streak by beneath them, can only hear the heavy footfalls as Asset's tree-trunk legs drive into the ground to carry them away.

Someone shouts from behind them. His kidnapper doesn't stop. The high-octane whoosh of Iron Man making passes overhead is drowned out by a repulsor blast that propels a car into their path. Asset jumps onto the hood instead of taking time to go around it. He leaps up and takes a shot at the redhead known as Black Widow in pursuit from the alley.

If he can just... He doesn't know why he reaches to the front of the Asset's legs, doesn't know what puts the thought into his head, but he finds the open puncture of the bullet hole and digs slim fingers into the injury. Hot blood and raw flesh stuff the grooves between fingernail and fingertip.

The Asset shouts. He loses his concentration for longer than a second, just long enough for Black Widow to get within firing range of some kind of gadget that magnetizes to Asset's prosthetic, at which point, the mechanism goes limp. Steve tumbles onto the hood of the car. Relief is pecan pie in his mouth. It's Ma's chocolate mousse and Pa's apple pie.

It doesn't last.

His kidnapper hurls something in Black Widow's direction that explodes as it hits the pavement, throwing her backward into a wall and producing a secondary explosion that lights up the area with blinding flashes. It temporarily confuses Iron Man's sensor array. Asset has enough tactical fortitude, and apparently enough anger over the low blow, that he grips Steve's hair and yanks him off the hood with a hard wrench.

Steve blacks out upon hitting the ground. He rouses moments later—his introductory anatomy course has taught him that the movies have it all wrong and that anyone who's been knocked unconscious for any real length of time likely has brain damage—to the tune of being stuffed inside the trunk of a small car. Said car lurches into motion moments later. He struggles to catch his breath and ignore his racing pulse. Looks like the Asset's going to kill him anyway.

***

The Asset will not soon forgive. The Asset will not soon forget. The Asset pulls over at Palisade's Medical Center south of Cliffside Park, New Jersey. For some unrecognized reason, his lip curls toward disgust at the idea of New Jersey. Nothing significant happened there that he can remember. He only knows it's an inferior place the way the Yankees are inferior to the Dodgers.

He pulled over twenty minutes ago to get the other man out of the trunk upon remembering his asthma. Being in a confined space could trigger an asthma attack, and the last thing he wants at present is to kill his mission assist until he's extracted all the information he can. Steve has ridden in silence since then, complexion looking more pallid by the moment and face drenched in sweat.

So Asset does the only thing he can. He whips into the emergency department parking lot. “What medication do you need?”

“I don't know what you're saying,” Steve answers with an exhausted sigh.

Frustration blooms hot and bright again, prompting him to point to his mouth and then the man's heart.

That does the trick. “Amiodarone.” He indicates the dosage requirement and leans listlessly against the passenger seat.

Asset reaches into the floorboard of the backseat for a zip tie with every intention of preventing Steve from taking off while he's raiding the hospital, but the man waves a hand and indicates he isn't going anywhere until he has the medication he needs to continue functioning. Asset is torn. Asset doesn't know why he's torn. Mission assist has displayed extreme reluctance to remain in his presence. Mission assist has stuck fingers into Asset's bullet wound in an effort to part company. _That fucking hurt, pal, but you got guts._

In the end, Asset obeys his training. He always obeys training. It takes seconds to zip-tie Steve's wrist to the door. With the windows up and his captive restrained, he feels safe enough to leave Steve in the car instead of dragging him through the hospital.

Asset has many skills, not all of them detailed in asset registry, but one he is most proud of is his ability to observe and mimic to blend into his surroundings. It has been the most use to him over the long years of service to the KGB, so there is something familiar about moving through the hospital filching scrubs and a doctor's jacket and badge. He enjoys the routine of shadowing a pharmacist into a break room to steal her identification along with filling his pockets with containers of pudding from a fridge.

He tucks suture kits into his pocket, downs a cup of coffee from the nursing station while smiling pleasantly at the nurse lounging there, and finally moves into the pharmacy using the pharmacist's badge to gain access to the controlled substances. Asset desires to be thanked and to have Steve's desire to leave diminished when he remembers to gather a few more of those cylinders of Albuterol.

Why he continues wanting to see Steve smile is still a mystery. [A present wrapped in brown paper. The card signed “Happy Birthday from your pal Bucky” tucked inside. Precious tubes of oil paint in vibrant, eye-hurting color. Skinny Man's kitten-kisses-and-cheeseburger smile upon unwrapping the gift. “Shucks, Buck, this is just about the greatest present I ever got. You're the best.”]

BUCKY! Bucky. bucky buckybuckybuck. 

Breath whistles into his lungs, and he feels cold and clammy but somehow hot all over. The heat pools in his chest. He doesn't know how to escape it, how to go back to being that cold-blooded assassin who wanted to please his handlers in order to receive reward instead of punishment. He clutches his chest with the desire to pull it open and expose lungs filled with cement, to somehow scoop the cement free in order to take a full breath.

Bucky. His name was Bucky.

“Hey, you okay?”

A nurse has entered the pharmacy without him even hearing the man's approach. Being startled damn near results in the man losing his life. He forces fingers to uncurl from the handle of a knife in the back of his pants. Face creaks into a charming smile, or as charming as he can manage while still feeling like his guts are turning thick as peanut butter.

“Yeah. Just getting over a summer cold. You know how that goes.”

The nurse asks if he needs help. He denies and scuttles away as soon as possible. The thought occurs to him while he's on the way back to the parking lot that he can speak perfect American during the course of raiding a hospital but can only revert to Russian when communicating with his reluctant mission assist. He can't figure why. _'S plain as the nose on your face, pal._ Buc-- Asset growls long and low at himself. 

He's relieved to find Steve slouched against the window right where he left him, at which point, he cuts the zip tie and stuffs bottles of heart medication into the other man's hand along with a little plastic jug of orange juice. For himself, he uses his tongue as an excavator to consume a tub of chocolate pudding to get some calories into his system.

The mission assist is watched with hawk eyes to ensure he takes the medication, because Asset will cram it down his throat if he attempts to end his life by failing to take it. Leastways, that's how he explains away his sudden concern for Steve's well-being. Doesn't have anything at all to do with the man giving him part of his cheeseburger, a reward for completing the task of bringing food. He still remembers the taste on his tongue, explosive and comforting after months of bland protein bars and flavorless nutrition shakes. Steve rewarded him. He successfully completed a task.

They're on the road again within forty minutes of stopping and drive right through New Jersey and into Allentown, Pennsylvania to put considerable distance between them and the Avengers. He can't be sure whether their raid on his safe house was a natural conclusion to his appearance at the gallery or if they are actively searching for Steve. What he knows is that this will set him back considerably.

Eventually, he locates suitable lodgings for the night, a two story foreclosure on the corner of Saint Mark's Cemetery. The area is busy enough so that their presence should go unnoticed but quiet enough he won't risk having his issues triggered by gunshots or police sirens. They can lay low there for a few days until he decides his next move.

Later, when he's unloaded his mission assist, gotten rid of the car, and procured a few supplies, he cuts Steve's, who he'd left tied to the stair railing, zip tie and folds himself into a corner on the top floor to listen to their surroundings. The wound on his thigh bleeds sluggishly again from the activity of getting settled into their new digs, but he doesn't think to clean or dress it. His handlers always saw to that, so he doesn't quite know the process of caring for himself in any meaningful way and is, therefore, surprised, by Steve coming in with a pan of hot water and a few dish towels.

“Look, I'm incredibly mad at you and think you're probably some Russian terrorist bent on blowing up the eastern seaboard, but you made sure I had medication. I should...” He allows the comment to trail off and moves his hand toward Asset's thigh. “If you want.”

Asset leans his head back against the hideous wallpaper covered in bulldogs smoking cigars and narrows his eyes, unsure what to make of Steve's offer. First a cheeseburger, now tending Asset's injuries? Some small compartment of his mind wonders if this is some sort of test and Steve actually is a handler performing diagnostics on his mission compliance while being forced to work independently. It would explain the reward and comfort pattern being established.

Finally, he nods.

Steve kneels to spread out the items he's brought. “You should...” Another vague gesture toward Asset's bottom half. Color brightens the man's cheeks. “No mas pantalones.” Steve's laughter is like the babble of gently running water with an undertone of strain.

A brow arches.

“Sorry. Jamie says that all the time. I miss her. Do you have anyone you miss?”

A quick shake of the head.

“No name and no family?” Something Asset can't name underpins the other man's expression. “You should drop your trousers.”

This request is also familiar. It's not that he minds having his body used to satisfy his handlers. They're gentle with him most of the time, and there is considerable comfort when they touch him because at least they aren't hurting him. It's sometimes a reminder that he's a person instead of a machine, but Steve wanting to touch his body is surprising. He unfastens black tactical pants and works them down from his hips along with the boxer-briefs beneath in anticipation of giving Steve his hole when asked, but when he reaches to unfasten his handler's—his mission assist's trousers, the man goes still and skitters away.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving comfort.” And he reaches for Steve's trousers again. “In exchange for cleanliness.”

His handler—his mission assist—Steve grabs his hand to deter the single-minded focus to please. “Whoa whoa whoa. Stop! Doesn't matter whether or not I would want that—I don't by the way; you're a terrorist and my kidnapper—but there's no way you can consent right now. You seem pretty messed up in the head. People who are messed up in the head can't give real consent.” Then, quieter and with furrowed brows, he adds, “Do you understand that?”

“Consent not necessary. Assets do not have wants. Do not have desires. They are.”

“Thanks for proving my point.” Steve's hands soften. They do not restrain so much as the thumb brushes gently against Asset's chapped knuckles. “You're a person, though. No one should do anything to your body without your consent. If I were to take advantage of your compromised sense of self and use you sexually, it would be rape. Anyone who's touched you intimately while knowing you feel like an object is raping you. And I'm so, so sorry that's happened to you.”

“Rape.” Asset mimics the word after Steve, confusion leaking from his pores. “What is it?”

“What's rape? Sexual assault is any kind of contact in your intimate areas that you don't agree to. If someone grabs your butt or your nipples or your crotch, that's sexual assault. Rape is any time someone manipulates your penis, forces you to penetrate, or penetrates you without your consent.”

Asset sits with his back against the wall in silence for a long time, digesting the things Steve has said. Objects can't consent to sex, but this man says his consent is necessary. Does that mean Asset is not an object? If he's not an object, that means he must be something else, a person maybe. Steve thinks he's a person. Steve won't touch him unless he consents. He doesn't realize he's crying until the other man leans over to drape a towel of his naked groin and uses a hankie from his pockets to wipe moisture from the Asset's face. Steve thinks he's a person and that his consent matters.

“S'okay. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Afterward, he leans into the wall and stuffs a knuckle in his mouth to quiet any noises he might make while Steve cleans and stitches the bullet hole. Finding and removing the bullet isn't important. It's standard procedure to leave slugs in bodies as long as they aren't interfering with standard bodily functions and would, in fact, cause more damage just by removing them. He's quiet during the process.

Neither says anything until after the wound has been dressed with gauze and tape, and only then does Steve say, “I feel silly calling you Asset. Isn't there anything else I can call you?”

He's quiet for a long while, head resting against a cigar-smoking bulldog and eyes closed. Finally, he says, “Bucky. I was once named Bucky.” In clear English.

***

Steve wants to kill people tonight. After a while, he excuses himself to the en suite bathroom where he punches a hole in the wall. The resulting bruised knuckles almost feel worth it, serve as a mild distraction from remembering the earnest look on Ass—on Bucky's face while offering himself like something of a reward. It wasn't about being attracted or not being attracted to his kidnapper; it was about knowing the man had been used so horrendously that he didn't think he was person enough to have a say in what happened to his body.

He punched the wall a second time, absolutely certain that if he ever found out who treated Bucky like a weapon, they wouldn't have much longer in the world after he got through with them. Buck, who looked almost stricken as though rejected after having clumsy advances turned away, didn't even know what rape was. The man expected to be punished for not pleasing Steve. It sickened him, and he's quite certain he'll never forget the look in those stormy eyes after having the importance of his consent explained to him. Bucky cried. He looked so lost.

Below the shock and horror exists something less pressing but somehow more important. It fills his guts with the certainty that Bucky belongs to him, a certainty buried somewhere deep in primordial genetics insisting, always insisting, that he was Bucky's as much as Bucky was his. It was impossible. They have never met before. 

[Sunshine cutting a skewed rectangle across old, hardwood floors. A man stretches like a cat in the golden light to soak up the heat of the sun despite frigid temperatures outside. He smiles. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Real mirth warming glacial eyes. Dimple in his chin deepens. “I figured your secret with the dames, Bucky.” “Oh yeah?” “You laze around like a cat 'til they want to stroke you.” “Much rather someone else go stroking me, Stevie.” Bottom lip tucked between white teeth. When he looks at Steve like that, he melts a little inside. “Gonna get us a little place of our own some day, Stevie. Walls won't be quite so thin. Then I'm gonna treat you real good, buddy.” “You already make me feel real good.” A kiss. His plump lips fit just right against Steve's.]

Gasping, Steve peels his glance away from the mirror on the medicine cabinet. He touches his bottom lip where the ghost of a taste lingers that doesn't belong to him. Tastes like cigarettes, cinnamon, and the Coca-cola they'd shared on the fire escape the summer before, and he has no idea where the images come from, where the memory comes from.

“Bucky,” he whispers just to taste the way the name fits on his tongue. Deja vue slithers a serpentine pattern in his gut, stronger than before. Somehow, he knew Bucky the way he knew his own soul.

After a considerable time spent willing his temper into control, he leaves the bathroom to go downstairs, stopping only momentarily at Bucky's grunt to say, “Going downstairs to make food. If you don't like that, you can zip-tie me to the bannister again.”

Bucky hesitates what feels like an agonizingly long time before nodding.

Relief pours down his spine like water from a faucet, and he goes to the kitchen to look through the supplies his kidnapper procured earlier. Best thing he can manage is a pot of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and while his stubborn sense of pride insists he eat downstairs, leaving the other man to his own devices, he makes the return journey with enough dinner for the both of them. He feels his face twist into lines of self-directed irritation over the lump of sympathy that wells from the way Bucky stares hungrily at the steaming bowls. Half-starving, suffering a warped sense of self, and having been raped the good lord knew how many times. His kidnapper can certainly make use of the temporary insanity defense if he goes to trial.

Steve sits and pushes a bowl complete with spoon and grilled cheese sandwich toward the other man. “Eat. Your eyeballs are going to pop out of your head if you don't feed yourself.”

Bucky's eyes dip toward the offering and back toward the bowl Steve cradles in his own hands.

“For fuck's sakes, I'm tired. My head is pounding, and you dragged me through _Jersey today.”_ The name drips from his tongue to splat against the floor like a thick loogie expelled from infected lungs. “Eat your goddamned food before I shove it down your throat. We do not waste food in this household, Mister.” He focuses attention then on his own meal, whimpering slightly over the flavor of the sharp cheddar as it bursts through clogged sinuses. Occasionally, he mumbles defamatory things about noxious fumes of New Jersey giving his lungs chemical burns.

After thirty seconds, Bucky finally pulls his bowl closer before turning to face the corner while shoveling it in. Add 'can't stand being watched while eating' to his list of 'provable temporary insanity defense.' A bite slides down the wrong way, and Bucky winds up coughing.

“Whoa. Hey, slow down, okay?” Steve's touches Bucky's hunched back, causing the man to snap ramrod straight. He pushes his luck, though, and rubs a warm palm up and down the man's back in an effort to loosen his lungs. “No one's going to take it away from you, Buck. Eat slower so you don't choke yourself? Who's going to zip-tie me to immovable objects if you've chocked to death?”

Tense moments pass before _his kidnapper_ finally loosens enough to resume eating, this time at a much calmer pace, and the meal finishes without further incident. The plastic bowl, bottom emblazoned with Tony the Tiger at soccer, reappears as Bucky slides it from his protective corner. Silence falls.

Steve lets half an hour go by before he finds enough courage to make conversation again, but running from his captor hasn't panned out well. Fighting the man simply isn't possible. Relying on the Avengers to come and save his dumb, Brooklyn ass is much too passive for his liking. That leaves a limited number of possibilities for regaining his freedom.

“Okay, we need to talk about what's happening here and your time line for getting things done. This is my life, after all, and I'd like to go back to living it at some point. What do you need from me?”

Bucky props a foot flat on the floor, knee upturned, and his flesh arm resting atop it. “Information.”

“You could be a little more specific there, pal.”

“Was chasing Hydra operatives in possession of nanotechnology through a paint factory. Didn't work out so well. The tech fell into vats of the paint.”

“And you found evidence of the nanotech in my painting.” It all makes horrible sense of sorts. Bucky isn't necessarily interested in him as a person. His guilt was in being at the wrong place at the wrong time. At the other man's nod, he forges on. “So you need to know where I got the paint in order to track where the rest has gone.”

Another quick nod.

“What kind of information is on the processors?”

“Don't know.”

“You're chasing something but have no idea why?”

“Mission.”

“You're someone's asset, and they've sent you to find the nanotech processors that contain information, but you don't know what that information is or why the people you work for want it. For all you know, this information could contain codes to launch nuclear weapons and start the next world war.”

“Must comply with mission.”

“Actually, no, you don't have to. No one can make you do anything unless there's some sniper hanging around waiting to blow your head off if you don't do what they say.”

Bucky scowls. “Assets do not have wants. Assets do not have thoughts. Assets have missions.”

A frustrated sigh escapes before he jams fingers through dirty, blonde hair. “You're not an asset. You're a human being, and human beings can make choices.”

“I don't want to be a human being; I want to go home!” the other man shouts into the quiet. The room sounds hollow afterward.

Quietly, Steve asks, “Where's home?”

Stormy eyes look away toward the closet door decorated with a child's stickers. The sticker's spell out 'somewhere over the rainbow.' Bucky finally says, “CC 309.” His eyes are wet again.

“I don't know where that is. I'm sorry.”

[Tears refuse to come. An ashen face. The strain of holding back. Has to man up and take care of the others. Black suits. Cloying scent of flowers. Low murmur of voices breaking over grief like brittle glass. Women crying. Two little girls crying. He takes a black-clothed elbow. Offers support best he can. Leads Bucky up to a small casket. Her face. Her little, innocent face. Sallow cheeks. Eyes closed. Cotton stuffed up her nose to keep the nostrils from collapsing. Two year old Sarah Barnes, named after his mother. “I can't,” Bucky chokes. “S'okay, pal. You don't gotta be so brave.” “Can't break down now. Ma's not doing so good. Becca and Charlotte need me to be strong.” “Hey. Hey, pal. Look at me.” Buck's eyes turn. “Let me be strong for ya, okay? I gotcha. Let go, and I'll catch ya.” The tears finally come thick and hard. The only time Stevie catches him.]

Air sucks hard into his lungs, making him cough. He scrambles for his inhaler to take a couple of puffs that help ease the constricted bronchial pathways. It isn't until he's managed to take several, deep breaths that he realizes there's a hand at the back of his neck, a warm, strong hand, and he glances up to find Bucky looking at him with clear concern etched on those refined features.

Bucky is beautiful even through the hard years of serving some other master.


	4. The Winter Soldier Vs. Duck Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to remember what it feels like to be human.

For the first time in his life, Steve feels torn between his principles and his personal needs. On the one hand, helping Bucky means supporting possible nuclear strikes by terrorists, but on the other, refusing to help means maybe never getting back home to Jamie. Family or the possible safety of the world? He knows what he would tell a third party. The good of the many outweighs blah blah blah. It really is different when the situation becomes personal.

His decision comes early in the morning after stepping from the bathroom. Bucky, who is curled into the corner hugging his knees, appears ashen and sweaty. Normally, that doesn't concern him. His kidnapper has all sorts of bodily responses he doesn't understand, but this morning, the man's pupils are so dilated he can hardly see any of the iris. They look glassy, too. Bloodshot veins in the whites appear blue instead of red. A slim trickle of blue oozes from tear ducts to glide quietly across his temple where his head is pillowed on a trash bag left behind by the previous homeowners.

Wetting a paper towel in the bathroom sink, he rushes over to kneel beside the man, one hand going to Bucky's shoulder. The touch causes the man to jump and glance around wildly, grip straining the structural integrity of a handgun. Heavy breaths make Steve think the man is on the brink of hyperventilation. He knows that feeling well.

“Whoa!” Steve isn't certain why he knows to immediately jam his knee atop the pistol, but he does to prevent Bucky from raising it into firing position. “I got you, Buck. Look at me. It's Steve. Don't you know your Steve?” He manages a small smile in response to his Samwise Gamgee impersonation.

Bucky relaxes. Sightly. He's less like a bear trap ready to spring.

“What's up with you? You've got stuff coming out of your tear ducts.” He reaches to swipe at the man's face with the paper towel. His kidnapper jumps. Steve hushes him by crooning, “I got you, Buck. You're okay. You're safe.”

The other man slowly uncoils again.

Steve takes the opportunity to carefully wipe away the mess on the man's face and eyes and holds the towel up to show Bucky. “Any idea why you're celebrating your inner Smurf today?”

Bucky attempts to speak but must stop and clear his throat to try again. “Medication. Should have reported to my handlers weeks ago for repairs and the chair.”

“What sort of medication? I've never seen any kind of medication that leaks from your damn tear ducts, and I've spent a good chunk of my life in and out of the hospital.”

“Dysfunctional model. The brain rearranges the identity. Can't keep things straight. Keep trying to revert to previous cover. Medication and the chair keep Asset functional.”

His brows pull tight together with confusion. “I'm sorry. I don't understand.”

“Medication maintains functional operations. Prevents brain from trying to rewrite itself.”

A sick feeling twists Steve's stomach as he works out several scenarios that might line up with whatever Bucky is talking about. It could mean anything from schizophrenia to any number of dissociative disorders. Or brain damage. For all he knows, the man's handlers are poisoning him to keep him in line.

For now, he finishes wiping the man's face only to realize Bucky is staring at him through impossibly long lashes, eyelids now at half-mast. That is when he makes his decision finally. It's clear Bucky is in an unhealthy relationship with the people controlling him and might not want to be there. If Steve has enough time with him, maybe he can save Bucky. They can recover the nanotech, work on digging through the mess that is his kidnapper's conditioning, and turn over their findings to the Avengers. Sounds like a plausible plan to him.

“Okay.”

Bucky makes a noise of inquiry.

“Okay, I'll help you recover the nanotech. You won't have to drag me around against my will. I won't try to run. But you have to promise me something in return. You have to promise me that you won't hurt me, and that when we find what you're looking for, you'll let me go back to Jamie. Deal?”

The other man nods.

Steve doesn't believe him for a second.

“First thing's first. You need a shower. Badly. Does that metal arm of yours go in water?”

Figuring out how to shower a six foot one inch, two hundred ten pounds of solid muscle, possible-terrorist who believes himself to be an inanimate object takes some doing. He's not entirely sure Bucky has ever taken a shower before what with the way he cringes his way through getting into the bathroom and jumps in the shower with both eyes closed and looking like someone's just kicked his puppy. Once he's under the spray, said eyes pop back open, a reaction that is immediately followed by a yelp.

“It's warm!”

Steve's face is probably a selfie moment, but he barrels on ahead with laying out some old towels he found in a bag of rags downstairs. Upon looking back up, he notices Bucky standing with both arms held away from his sides and looking expectantly toward the soap, something almost shy about the way he tries to stand with his legs partially crossed to hide his genitals. Not that Steve gives a shit about the man's genitals. It's impossible for him to be sexually attracted to someone who thinks they're an object.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” A beat of silence passes. “You're not kidding me.”

He definitely has been pining to bathe a terrorist asset who kidnapped him and believes himself to be a weapon for unjust villainy. Check that one off the bucket list. Note the incredible sarcasm, he says to himself while standing on the rim of the tub in order to shampoo the shaggy, shoulder-length hair, careful to keep the soap from running into Bucky's eyes. Water and suds run dark down the man's body, and Steve washes said hair three times before the water runs clear.

***

Asset—Bucky feels like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. Wonder tickling his hippocampus and limbic systems, he drags flesh fingertips through his hair to feel the silken softness that has replaced the greasy grit of combat. Conditioner seems a marvelous thing if it can make even his hair feel like spun silk. He lifts the flesh arm to sniff the pit, lightly furred with coarse hair, and pushes his nose deeper into the smell of soap where he inhales a breath. A hand slithers down to cup the weight of heavy genitals and revel in the soft, clean feeling that has replaced the sloppy sweat derived from flesh pressed too long against flesh. The constant irritation of jock itch fades surprisingly fast given his rapid rate of healing now that he's clean and dry.

He feels... He feels hu... He feels human for the first time since his last reset. Steve has helped him to feel human, and he allows himself a timid smile that causes him to touch the uplifted corners of his mouth with fleshy fingertips. The reflection in the mirror is almost unrecognizable.

Mimicking facial expressions is something he's often done during a covert operation, but he hasn't practiced in some time, so he leans against the sink counter and pulls the corners of his mouth higher to approximate a smile. It doesn't look nearly the same as Steve's smile. On the contrary, he looks wolfish, like he's on the verge of eating someone. Moving his mouth around scrubs the attempts at humor from his face. He wiggles his nose.

[Gales of laughter shriek through the sunlit living room. Young laughter. Three girls surround him as they sit on a rug in the middle of the floor. Nearby, a well-worn sofa contains a sleeping man. A sleeping Steve Rogers. Bucky hushes the girls. “Story! Story, 'ucky!” Sarah. Sarah Barnes. A small body climbing onto his lap. The scent of cotton candy from the circus. Happiness. Family. “You ever hear the story about Peter Rabbit?” Dark ringlets bob as her head whips side to side. So he tells her. His nose wiggles like a rabbit.]

The approximation of a smile has disappeared by the time he glances again in the mirror, replaced by a quivering bottom lip as he restrains some inner emotion he shouldn't be feeling. Too long since his last maintenance. His mission functions have already begun breaking down. Wetness wells in his eyes. When a tear overflows, he traces its path until it disappears into the scruff of a beard.

“Sarah Barnes.” He tests the name on his tongue. Sarah Barnes is dead. He can't say how he knows that. “Steve Rogers. Bucky Barnes.” There are other names lurking at the edges of his conscious that refuse to come into the light. He doesn't force them.

“How do you do? My name is Bucky Barnes.” He clears his throat to try again. “Pleased to meet you. My name is James Barnes. This is my friend, Steve Roberts. Steve Roberts. Steve Rogers. Jamie Roberts. James Buchanan Barnes.”

He refocuses and tries again. “Hello, my name is James Buchanan Barnes. I am a human being. I am allowed to choose. Steve Rogers-- Steve Roberts says I'm allowed to choose.”

A soft knock at the bathroom door interrupts him, and he turns to bring the doorway into his peripheral vision as it cracks open. Steve shoves a pile of clothes inside and closes the door afterward. The clothes come from Bucky's backpack. He's been lugging them around since failed-reset but hasn't ever bothered changing into them until now.

He finds a pair of dark jeans, boxer briefs, and a soft, cotton shirt. The pants fit well enough, but the shirt fits him like a second skin, pulling tight against his super soldier musculature. 

He looks at himself in the mirror again to reconfigure his face into happiness, into sadness, into anger and wonders if he's always been able to make emotions like that. Both lips pucker into something he once saw on stolen phone. The bleach blonde former owner referred to them as duck lips.

He doesn't chuckle during the exercise, but upon dropping back into resting bitch-face, he notices a tiny smile and realizes the exercise has amused him. Weapons can't be amused. Only human beings can be amused. He supposes animals might be capable of amusement, too.

“My name is Bucky Barnes, and I am a human being.”

Finally smoothing his shirt, he exits the bathroom to find Steve sitting cross-legged on the floor playing with some child's toy left amidst the junk of a hasty move. It's a flat, red box containing a gray panel with two white buttons. He doesn't want to move closer, doesn't want to admit to curiosity and is saved from doing so when Steve turns the toy around. He's used the buttons to draw a penis and balls on the gray panel. Bucky feels his cheeks heat with color.

They don't need to speak. Bucky just settles on the floor across from the slimmer man to watch while Steve turns the toy back around to doodle something else. The addition turns out to be a guillotine in the process of clipping the tip off the penis.

A rusty sound grates the atmosphere, rhythmic huffs of breaths that leave Steve staring at him with wide eyes and a broad smile. Bucky realizes immediately he wants to keep that smile on the man's face. He wants. Bucky wants. I am James Buchanan Barnes, and I want, he says to himself. _Damn straight, pal. We want._ It's not until several moments later that he connects the sound with himself. The sound is laughter.

“You are Steve Rogers,” Bucky says after a few minutes silence.

“Steve Roberts,” corrects the other man.

He shakes his head. “You are Steve Rogers. You belonged to a previous version of Asset. Handlers rewrote that version a long time ago. When my brain malfunctions, I remember you.”

“I'm not, though. My ma named me after Steve Rogers. Named my sister after Rogers' best friend, guy named James Buchanan Barnes.”

Confusion. Why would their mother name a daughter after a previous iteration of this body? After the man who owned this face before the Asset was born? “What happened to Steve Rogers?”

“Shot dead on the steps of the Triskelion in Washington DC just before I was born.”

Fear. He has always known what fear feels like. Fear feels like a razor blade slashing his intestines into little pieces. Fear drives him to his feet where he runs to the window to open it in order to breathe fresh air chilled with the bite of winter. Not even several deep breaths can clear the cobwebs. It's wrong wrong wrong! Steve can't be dead. Then a second thought chills him.

“Who killed him?”

“Don't know. It was declared a cold case a few years after the murder. I don't think anyone really bothered looking into it. I mean, his wife did before she got sick, but she suffers from Alzheimer's now and can't remember her own nieces and nephews.”

He's going to be sick.

Asset peels away from the window and diffuses Steve's concerned questions while rushing toward the door to escape the building that feels like it's creeping closer, like it's shrinking, and if he doesn't get out, he's going to be ground into a pile of hamburger meat and bone. He's in such a state that he forgets to zip-tie Reluctant Mission Assist on his way out, just races outside onto the sidewalk, jumps the gate into Saint Mark's Cemetery and flees amidst the headstones.

WRONG WRONG WRONG!

He slumps against the trunk of a tree—there's a cluster of mature trees at the center of the cemetery—and bangs his flesh fist against his temple to try to remember. Did he kill Captain America? Did he kill Steve Rogers? Gasping breaths flutter into his lungs with the scent of foliage and winter and blood and gunpowder and the POP POP POP of gunfire. Killed on the steps of the Triskelion in Washington DC.

“Magpie, magpie cooked the porridge. Fed it to the little children. She gives to this one. She gives to that one.” The ritual continues until he reaches his flesh and bone pinkie. “She does not give to this one.” Pressure bends the finger toward the back of his hand until it pops with a sickening crunch of bone. “You have not brought water. You have not chopped firewood.”

THINK! Was he ever dispatched to DC? Surely he would be sent on such a high profile kill mission. The death of Captain America is a top priority which would logically call for the dispatch of their greatest assassin. POP POP POP goes the air rifle. PING PING PING goes the metal ducks. LAUGH LAUGH LAUGH goes the Rogers after being presented with a little stuffed rabbit.

“There is nothing for you,” he gasps. “Magpie, magpie cooked the porridge. Fed it to the little children. She gives to this one. She gives to that one.” Bone grinds against bone. “She does not give to this one. You have not brought water.”

Why can't he remember? He bangs his temple again, threads fingers into the hair and yanks painfully in an effort to trigger a flashback. He's had enough of them lately that he should remember something. But he doesn't. A terrified whimper roughs his throat. Why can't he remember?

“You have not chopped firewood. There is nothing for you. There is nothing for you.” _Think, you crazy bastard; this is important._ “There is nothing for you. There is nothing for you.”

Something rakes through the soft jelly of his brain to stop the repetition. Tears sheet down his cheeks. “I am Asset, and I murdered Captain America.” he whispers, breath fogging on the exhale. “I am Asset, and I murdered Steven Grant Rogers. I am Asset, and I murdered Steve Rogers. I am Asset, and I murdered my Stevie.”

A gulf of emotion opens to swallow him. Tears are cold against his cheeks, and he burrows the crown of his head into his forearms to hide from the world. Someone is sobbing nearby. _Nah, that's us, pal, because you're messed up._ He's sobbing so hard his throat becomes raw. If he was awful enough to murder his own-- his own...

[A wooded glen. The Howling Commandos in their parade uniforms. Olive drab coats. Slacks pressed to a razor's edge. Chests dripping with insignia and medals. Colonel Phillips standing beneath a tree laden with apple blossoms. Steve waiting next to Phillips. Big Steve. Not Skinny Steve. Phillips holds a Bible. Bucky walks down the aisle to hold his hand out to the man he loves. He can't stop smiling. “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here to witness the unofficial and highly illegal...]

“Buck?”

The sound of Steve's voice makes him flail wildly in search of a weapon. He's left them all back in the house. How has he managed to come away unarmed and without securing his reluctant mission assist? His head snaps up, and he looks beseechingly at the man who wears the face of Steve Rogers.

“I think I killed him.”

***

Steve's heart breaks into tiny pieces when he finds Bucky in the cemetery, and he calls himself a thousand times a fool for not taking the opportunity to disappear. He's fairly certain he can grab a cab or get someone to call the police while Bucky's having his nervous breakdown, but he can't. That look on his face... He just can't leave him like that.

“Buck.” No response. “Buck, you're gonna have to slow your breathing for me. Babydoll, if you don't breathe slowly, you're going to hyperventilate.”

No response.

He doesn't know why he slips down behind Bucky, squeezing himself into the space between the tormented man and the tree. He just does it, obeys some vague sense of symmetry telling his hind brain that this is right and sinks into position to offer some small measure of comfort. He does it and winds both arms around Bucky's midsection to pull him back, solid back against bird-bone chest.

“S'okay, Babydoll. I gotcha. I need you to breathe with me, okay? You feel that?” A deep, cold breath roughs his lungs and prompts a few coughs. Another breath goes down easier, and it exhales in a fog. “You feel me breathing, Darlin'? Come on. You can do it. Breathe in.”

Bucky warbles a chainsaw breath in, holds for three, and allows it to slither out.

“Again. Breathe in one, two, three.”

He breathes in.

“Breathe out one, two, three.”

He breathes out.

Several brittle moments later, Bucky finally relaxes into Steve's embrace and melts, shaking, into the offered comfort while the remainder of the tension drains away. Silence follows. For the first time, Steve doesn't feel the cold, only feels the incredible warmth of the solid body in front of him, and he experiences a stab of longing that doesn't really belong to him, an old sort of longing that scatters ages of dust as it moves.

[“By the power of Christ brought from Heaven, mayest thou love me. As the sun follows its course, mayest thou follow me. As light to the eye, as bread to the hungry, as joy to the heart, may thy presence be with me, one that I love, 'til death comes to part us asunder,” Steve says. Tears. A wooden band spun on a lathe by Howard Stark depicting two hands, a heart, and a crown. Bucky wears a watery smile. He slips the band on Steve's left hand, heart toward the palm to signify marriage. “With these hands, I give you my heart and crown it with my love.” A kiss.]

Steve Rogers was married to Bucky Barnes in an illegal service performed by their unit commander. He's been experiencing flashbacks of Steve's life with Bucky. Bucky is, impossibly, James Buchanan Barnes. Alive. Impossibly alive and impossibly damaged. His husband is dead.

Sadness blankets the atmosphere. Perfect place for it surrounded by the mournful statuary the living dedicate in memory of the dead. Given shelter in the middle of the dead and surrounded by trees whose canopy is barren, he allows himself to remember, to embrace the grief that has grown gray with time. Mbali is three years dead, a bright, young Namibian man Steve met and fell head over heels for at the Pratt Institute.

Being eager twenty-somethings, they threw themselves into a whirlwind romance culminating in a marriage proposal—Mbali asked; Steve accepted—and a trip to the local court house. Jamie, still in her school uniform, met them there. His ma and pa hadn't approved and refused to attend. They were married without fanfare, just a private dinner when he brought his husband home. There wasn't enough money for a honeymoon, but it hadn't mattered. Steve was happy.

He was delirious for an entire year. Three hundred sixty-five days of marriage, love, intimacy, joy, and the phone call deep in the haunted hour of the night from Brooklyn Hospital. A quick “Are you Steve Roberts?” followed by “Yes, is something wrong?” and a “There's been a shooting. Mbali Roberts is in critical condition. You should come as quickly as you can.”

Steve drags a forearm across his eyes. Gray absorbs black again as emotions rocket to the surface, the pain and loss, the mourning, the realization he will never see Mbali again. He will never hold the earnest boy full of enthusiasm and optimism. He will never sigh into the charged quiet of their bedroom while he moves inside Mbali, accompanied by the broken sighs and dreamy noises of men well-satisfied. He will never feel his husband trace hearts across his skin.

By the time he returns from the inward sanctuary where Mbali now lives, snow drifts from overhead to kiss the headstones around them, whisper-soft like a lover's kiss. He loses track of how long they spend outside, Bucky pressed against him as the man's shivers slowly abate, before the cold becomes too much for Steve. A cough is buried into the shoulder of Steve's jacket. The tell-tale chill of fever encrusts his insides in a frigid grip. He's been feeling the oncoming illness for the past couple of days, but if he always stops with the onset of another cold he won't ever get anything done.

“Bucky? I think we should go back inside.”

The other man doesn't move for a moment, just nuzzles back against Steve like a man starved for the simple comfort of touch, but after a moment's hesitation, he finally rises. “You didn't leave.”

“Told ya I was gonna help you figure this thing out. Besides, you've stranded me in Pennsylvania.”

Bucky smiles. Though the other man looks exhausted and spent, he manages it in a way that lights up his whole face. Like Christmas morning. Bucky has a Christmas morning sort of smile.

“Hey.” Steve reaches to grasp the man's forearms.

A frown obscures the previous warmth of that smile, overwritten by concern, as Bucky stacks both of Steve's hands between his own to chafe them. When that doesn't produce the desired result, said hands are guided under the man's shirt to be pressed against Bucky's abdomen. The shock of warmth and sudden surge of want takes Steve by surprise. Trouble is that he can't tell if the want is his own or produced by the Rogers that has been leaking into his memories. He's not Steve Rogers but feels Steve Rogers' eternal boner when it comes to James Barnes. Great. A cold and a spectral boner?

“Bucky, stop for a second. I want to tell you something.”

Glacial slate turns to look at him.

“I don't think you were forced to murder the other Steve. I think the people who brainwashed and controlled you weren't stupid enough to send you to assassinate the one person who could break you free of them. James Buchanan Barnes would move Heaven and Earth to save his husband.”

Silence.

“It's okay if you don't believe me, pal. The good lord knows no one has given you a reason to believe anything lately, and you don't undo all that conditioning in a matter of weeks. We're going to get through this together, okay?” Another sneeze is buried in his forearm.

“Let's get you inside, Stevie. You don't look well.”

“Don't feel so hot, neither.”

It gets worse as the day goes on. What starts as a stuffy head, sneezing, and fever, explodes to the nth degree, and by that evening, his chest feels packed with cotton and his throat raw as hamburger meat. He can hardly swallow without feeling as though someone's embedded razor blades in his esophagus, can't even move from under the mound of old blankets and rags Bucky piles him high with in an attempt to abate the chills. Steve's pretty sure he's dying, but he's also pretty sure he thinks that every other month when some new air-born pathogen decides to ruin his day.

“Sit up. You need to eat this.”

He eases his head from inside the cocoon to find Bucky kneeling beside him with a bowl of something hot. Even his eyeballs are overheated, so the idea of swallowing something hot is about as appealing as a vasectomy without local anesthetics. He shakes his head to avoid speaking.

“Eat it, or I will cram it down your throat, pal. You haven't eaten all day.”

Steve narrows his eyes dangerously. “Your cooking is poison,” he croaks.

Buck looks at him, offended.

“I remember, pal.” He taps his temple. “Winter of 1940. Hung my—his head over a bucket for two weeks after that stew you made.”

The other man squawks like an angry goose and sits back on his heels. Takes a minute for his expression to clear from offense to confusion to a dawning remembrance. “I remember, Stevie.” The Christmas smile returns. “That was the winter you were sick for damn near three months. We were so poor Mister Bukoski took pity on us and gave me some of the left over trimmings from his business.”

Steve doesn't remember it in such detail. Sometimes he feels as helpless as Bucky when it comes to the jumble of memories in his skull. “Yeah, well, Rogers learned his lesson the hard way.”

Bucky shakes his head again and sits more comfortably on his behind. “That was bad meat. This is just chicken noodle soup. Can't hardly tell there's any meat in it. Probably isn't real meat anyway. Just hydrogenated soy with chicken flavoring.”

A short bark of laughter makes him think his throat has finally caught on fire. Bucky also has a point. He eases onto his elbows with every intention of taking the bowl to feed himself, but before he can sit up, a spoonful of chicken and stars nearly collides with his face. He glances over to the soldier. Uncertainty hangs in the air by a thread. Finally, he opens his mouth to take it.

“What do you need? To feel better?”

“Cough syrup. Some kind of throat spray. Make my throat feel better. Maybe some Nyquil.” He takes another spoonful and is surprised by the gentleness with which it's delivered, the soldier's eyes full of veiled concern.

“I'll go. When you're done eating. Do I need to zip-tie you?”

“You're talking kinky stuff again, pal?” His attempt at a smile probably looks more like a grimace. Then, a moment later, he continues, “No. Told ya. I ain't going nowhere until we figure out this thing you're hunting. But you got money for this stuff? I don't want you to get in trouble for stealing.”

Bucky's face becomes hooded.

“I've got a bank card. Sold some paintings last month, so there's a couple hundred dollars in there. Was really looking forward to that money from the Iron Man painting. Jamie wants to go to college.” Steve quiets himself when he realizes he's rambling. “Let me just get my--”

The other man interrupts him by shoving another spoonful of soup in Steve's mouth. “No bank cards. They'll trace you. I have money.”

“Just be careful, okay? Wear your hoodie and coat but don't lurk around the pharmacy like you're a creepy stalker who stalks. And don't buy any zip-ties in combination with duct tape and a shovel. Makes you look like a serial killer.” He manages a smile. Steve lies down again after Bucky is satisfied with the amount of soup he's eaten and leaves quietly. 

Misery makes him long for the oblivion of sleep, but knowing Buck is out there on his own prevents him from actually falling asleep. It's surprising to realize that his concern isn't just for the civilians Bucky might run into along the way. He's also concerned about Bucky. The Avengers might find him. The men who called him their asset might find him. Steve might never see him again.

[“Bucky! Take my hand!” Desperation. A serum-strong hand reaching across the frigid distance separating them. Bucky clings to a loose railing on a train. The wind whistles around them. “Just a little farther, Buck! Don't let go!” Fingertips touch. Fear knifes Steve's chest. A bladder wants to turn traitor. Almost there. Just a few more centimeters. Metal becomes a banshee. The railing breaks loose. Bucky's screams. The sound of Bucky's screams. The agony of Bucky's screams. Failure. Death. _Jump after him, you stupid failure._ He leans. Strong arms. Gabe Jones holding him back.]

***

For the first time in as long as he can remember— _that ain't very long, pal_ —the Winter Soldier is confused. Brow furrowed, he picks up a box of cough syrup to read the ingredients. No one's ever told him there are so many varieties to choose from, and nothing like this selection was available back before his birth. Before the Asset was born from the ashes of James Barnes. He scrunches his nose. He isn't sure if he should buy an expectorant or a suppressant. The words themselves aren't confusing, but should he suppress the nastiness in Steve's lungs or bring it up?

Nearby, a woman huffs something about highway robbery that lowers his hand toward the gun holstered against his ribs. Didn't take him long to understand the phrase. _You don't even know the half of it, lady._ Used to be, he could get a green and yellow box of Pinex cough syrup for seventy-five cents that made a whole pint of medicine. Shoveling it down Steve's throat was a different battle. Then there was the cod liver oil, the virol, concentrated Vitamin C, and Vicks Vapo-Rub. He remembers smearing hot kaolin on strips of linen across Steve's chest to dry his lungs out and encouraging him to smoke Marshall's Medicated Cigarettes designed to control his asthma and bronchial infections.

The woman must notice his conundrum, as she sidles closer to pick out a bottle of Robitussin with expectorant. “That's what you want. Gotta get that mucous up out of the lungs.”

Rust roughs his voice when he finally says, “Sore throat, cough, and fever.”

“This for your kid or you?”

“A friend.” After she helps him find what he needs, he clears his throat. There's something he's supposed to say here, something a human would say to another human for rendering assistance. His voice is hoarse again when he says, “Thanks.”

Within five minutes, he has the precious medications that will allow Steve to get some rest and feel better and goes to the check-out counter. He doesn't want to bother with paying. It's a nuisance, but he gets the feeling Steve Roge—Roberts will glare at him like he's a bad person if he tries to force stolen medicine down his throat. Not Steve Rogers indeed.

Things get complicated at the check-out where some fresh-faced punk in a blue smock asks him for his identification. The Winter Soldier part of him wants to hit the punk in the head and make hay out the door. _Sounds good to us, pal. Steve don't always know what's right._ But if he steals cough medicine, the local authorities will be on the look out for anyone matching his description, and he wants to keep a low profile. _Fine. Fucker. Just get us home to Stevie._

“ID, you know, little card with your picture on it.”

“What for?”

“For the cough medicine.”

“Punk, my ma used to take cough medicine with cocaine in it. What do I gotta have an ID to buy cough medicine for?”

“Chill, man. State law, you know. Because the junkies buy the cough medicine to get high on the dextromethowhatever. Man, come on. There's a big line behind you. Just let me see your ID.”

“What if I don't wanna show it to you?”

“Then you're a junkie who doesn't really want to buy cough medicine 'cause your throat hurts. Don't make me call my manager over.”

Bucky squares his shoulders to make himself look bigger and takes a step forward that causes Punk to take a step backward. The kid's little hand shuffles around his area looking for the phone, and Bucky considers breaking said phone and putting the fear of the Soldier into his bones. Instead, he drags out a wallet to shuffle around inside with his gloved hand, from whence he produces a card that he shoves toward Punk. There is a considerable amount of satisfaction watching the kid cringe.

Bucky makes a hyena smile.

“Y-you're not as funny as you t-t-think you are. Man, I thought you were gonna shoot me.”

_Near thing, Buddy. Very near thing._

ID back in his wallet and bag of medicine—there might also be an orange package of chocolate-covered peanut butter cups for men the size of kings, stupid check-out candy displays—looped on his wrist, he leaves the 7-11, which, incidentally, does not sell everything in lots of seven or eleven and is on the way back when several mean looking men herd him toward an alley. Just what he doesn't need when Stevie is miserable. A short growl emanates from his throat.

“You don't want to do this, pals.”

“Longing.”

He freezes inside. His bones are brittle with permafrost.

“Rusted.”

Crimson. Everything goes crimson with fear. His bladder leaks a damp spot on his boxer briefs.

“Furnace.”

The Asset explodes into motion. He swings the bag of medicine at one man's head, distracting the combatant long enough that he buries his metal fist into the throat of the man speaking those words, those horrendous, hurtful, mind-tearing words. They stop momentarily. Swinging around allows him to put his foot into the jaw of another man and he's not entirely satisfied by the teeth-aching crunch of bone. It doesn't matter. All that matters is stopping those words.

“Daybreak.” Another takes up the chant.

Each words makes his body feel loose, less compliant to the adrenaline coursing through his blood. He ducks beneath a charged baton that comes too close to shorting out his arm, and when he comes up on the other side, he puts a bullet through a man's head. Not enough time before those words end.

“Seventeen.”

Another quick twist of Bucky's body brings him close enough to wrap a metal grip around Seventeen's throat. The quick jerk that follows snaps his enemy's neck. He's already moving again by the time said enemy hits the pavement. Sirens in the distance.

The remaining KGB agents flee with their lives once they realize they've lost the advantage of numbers and surprise. It means the words stop, but the hackles on the Asset's neck don't smooth. He's primed like a powder keg and just starting to escape when several armed officers hurry into the alley with guns drawn. Taking them out wouldn't be a terrible burden, but they are peacekeepers trying to do the job. Their lives can't be on his conscience. Neither will being taken into custody help Steve.

So the Winter Soldier gets shot twice in one week while jumping from the lid of the dumpster onto the fire escape. As soon as he lands, he's running in an effort to avoid the bullets pinging against the brick wall on either side of him. He ascends to the roof, sprints across it, and takes a leap of faith. Faith. As though all those Hail Mary's awarded for bad behavior did anything to protect him from the Nazis or the KGB. His legs pump for just that extra few centimeters of forward momentum that allow him to catch the parapet of the opposing roof. Weight settling on the metal joint makes the arm whine.

There's just enough time to haul himself to safety before more sirens screech into the neighborhood. It's too dangerous to go directly back to Steve with cops crawling around the area looking for some armed gunman who'd left a string of dead bodies in an alley. Cops won't understand if he tells them the KGB agents deserved to die. Justice does not mean a jail cell and a justice system weighted heavily toward Great White lawyers getting rich off their charges. Justice means a pine box so bad people can't hurt good people again.

The Asset is terribly certain he's one of those bad people. A pine box would be an acceptable exchange for the oblivion of home.


	5. Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier loses his Reluctant Mission Assist and goes bonkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains an interrupted suicide attempt.

Something's wrong. Steve pulls himself from the depths of his cocoon, but without a way to tell time, he can't be certain how long it's been since Bucky left. All he knows is there's a ball of worry boiling away in his gut insisting that something awful has happened, and he needs to get up. The Rogers memories scream to go find Bucky. Doesn't matter that he's dog sick and can barely see through fever-blurred vision. All that matters is moving, finding James Barnes before he's lost again.

But I'm not Steve Rogers, he screams back. And the comforting truth of the matter is that it doesn't matter if he's his namesake. It only matters that the man out there apparently survived a fall from a train, was captured by someone evil, and turned into a weapon.

So he gets up. He pulls himself from his death bed and crosses the room to peek between heavy curtains. Police lights dance the jive down at the 7-11 where Bucky would have gone for over-the-counter cold medicine. Cemetery trees block his view of the corner store and prevent the gathering of detailed information, but he figures it's too much to ask of the universe that the cops were called to book a petty pilferer. The universe is never that kind to him.

Various scenarios hold a Sunday matinee across the back of his eyelids, causing bile to skitter into his throat, so he grabs his suit jacket, which is the only cold weather protection he was wearing when Bucky kidnapped him from the gallery, and heads out. The jacket isn't enough. Frigid winds bite like fighting dogs into his bones. He sways, the dogs shaking him viciously to tear free chunks of flesh.

He keeps putting one foot in front of the other, though, because he's desperate to find out what happened, desperate to know that Bucky hasn't been lost to the ether, that he hasn't lost him again... Again? You are not Steve Rogers, he reminds himself. Bucky was never his to lose in the first place. Something primordial buried deep within millions of years of genetic evolution that took him from a single celled organism to Steven Grant Roberts disagrees.

A crowd of gawking bystanders has already surrounded the 7-11 by the time he arrives, and upon closer inspection, he sees a coroner dispensing with several bodies lying in repose inside the alley. Trying to get closer results in being forced back behind the police tape. They don't understand that his heart could be lying dead in that alley. He searches for a tell-tale glint of light on metal, heart fluttering wildly until it drowns out an awful siren of alarm blaring in his ears. He can't be dead.

Two cops nearby stave off the internal riot when one says, “Put out an APB for a dark-haired, white male, standing roughly six feet, two hundred plus pounds, and wearing dark jeans and jacket. One of the witnesses says he was also wearing a Captain America ball cap. The suspect is enhanced.”

“How do you know he's enhanced?” another cop asked.

“Witnesses say he jumped from the top of that dumpster straight to the roof. Know any regular folk who can do that without the aide of some sort of StarkTech?”

“Fine. Okay. Enhanced white male.”

Relief eases the pounding of Steve's heart, as the description fits Bucky. Normally, he might find James Barnes running around wearing a Captain America baseball cap ridiculously adorable. That whole bit where the guy's husband is dead just makes it a tragedy, though. He's not like the average Game of Thrones fan and doesn't get his jollies from watching misery porn, so he just finds the whole thing incredibly sad.

Convinced Bucky is somewhere laying low and will return when the heat dies down, Steve turns to head home only for a wave of dizziness to unsettle his stance. He reaches blindly to brace himself on a street light where he fights oblivion. Concerned do-gooders ask him if he's all right. In point of fact, he's not all right but can't risk passing out on a city street. The thing that absolutely cannot happen does. He faints, and the last thing he hears are shouts to bring the paramedics.

 

Steve croaks past a hoarse throat. He screams and pounds fists against an invisible barrier. He reaches for a stretched-out hand. Bucky comes in his mouth, but it emerges as granules of sand. Jamie clings to a broken handle on a train door. Another scream is tacky in his throat. He throws himself after her when she falls but lands in a crystal clear lake, guzzles his weight in the water to ease the stickiness of his throat, but it does no good. Bucky's hard heat moves inside him. “You feel so good, baby.” Sand pushes out of his mouth as his husband thrusts into him.

He wakes with a startled sound, drenched in sweat from a breaking fever and panicked. Nothing around him makes sense up until the throbbing in his head dissipates enough to understand he's in a hospital room. Something mundane plays on the television up in the corner. It's dark out.

“They don't warn you how awful hospital chairs are, you know. I think they do it on purpose. Make the chairs so uncomfortable even the Virgin Mary would feel like a cheap hooker if she sat long enough. Oh right. Catholic? Sorry but not sorry. Unrepentant heathen and practitioner of the Church According to Science. You don't mind, do you?” The man next to him grabs the unopened cup of Jello from the rolling lap tray.

Bleary eyes refuse to focus for strained seconds.

“Course you don't mind. You look more like a pudding man anyway.”

Pudding brings back a haze of memories of Bucky using his tongue to scoop mouthfuls of pudding from a disposable cup, the way his eyes flared wide upon getting the artificial flavoring and sugar across his tongue that made him eat faster. Indelicately. Steve hadn't had the heart to point out the bits of chocolate smeared in his stubble.

“Earth to Roberts. Hellllllllllo.”

Not a stranger, Steve surmises when he finally glances to acknowledge his visitor. Everyone knows what Tony Stark looks like, and everyone knows Tony Stark is Iron Man. That distinctive mustache and goatee would give him away anywhere.

“You look like you're wearing a ballerina on your face,” Steve finally mutters.

“I've had ballerinas on my face, but don't tell Pepper, okay? She still has me in the doghouse for canceling date night last week, and if she finds out I've got Anna Pavlova squatting on my chin, she'll just pack my things and move them into Fido's.” A beat of silence passes. “Wait. Why a ballerina?”

“You mean you didn't do it in purpose?”

“Do what? Telllllll me.” The man sounds like a petulant brat.

“Your mustache forms the arms. The under-the-lip part makes the bodice, and that narrows into the waist only to flare again to make the tutu. Then those things split off on either side and trace the outline of your jaw. Those are the legs in the middle of a grand jetés.”

Tony abandons his chair to rush into the adjoining bathroom. “Huh. You know that thing you've never noticed before, but now that you know it's there, you can't stop looking at it? Eyes, meet Margot Fonteyn. Why yes, Officer, I do in fact have Galina Ulanova on my face.”

Steve wants to know how this is life, laid up in a hospital bed, possessed by memories of Steve Rogers, worried sick about a Russian murder suspect, and listening to Tony Stark make love to his own face. He drapes his forearm across his eyes and doesn't bother peeking out until Iron Man returns from the bathroom and takes his seat again.

“Sooooo.” Tony eats a few bites of the Jello. “A little bird told us that you were kidnapped by a Terminator. Of course, that little bird was me, who makes a habit of looking into violent outbursts at any venue my wife has recently visited. Come to find out, the possible-terrorist-probably-Terminator took a single hostage and one really swell painting that I supposedly own now and disappeared.”

“He's not a terrorist or the Terminator.”

“We'll come back to that in a moment. Upon perusing security footage of the event, this little bird--” He points to himself for emphasis before continuing, “--discovered that the kidnap victim is none other than the grandson of Howling Commando member Jacques Dernier, one Steven Grant Roberts. Your mom-- You should either hug her or punch her.”

“She's dead.”

“As I was saying, you should either kiss a picture of her or go visit her grave. Anyhow, the little bird finds out the kidnap victim is the sole custodian of one Jamie Buchanan Roberts. Your mom, man. So 'Pepper,' I says, 'we've got to find this guy and get him back to his underage sister.' Only, you know, I said it grammatically correctly.”

Steve straightened and sat up upon mention of his sister. “I have to go. I have to--” Wooziness stops him before he can even swing his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Whoa! Hold on, Tiger.” Tony puts a hand on his shoulder to ease him back against the pillows. “Don't worry about Jamie. Cap picked her up at your apartment. She's at the tower enjoying—I don't know—spa day with America or something. She's perfectly safe.”

The stress of the whole thing finally catches up with him, and he can't blink fast enough to dry the tears that spill from his eyes. Relief loosens his hold on reality. “I should call her. She's probably scared out of her mind. I tried, but Bucky came back and caught me on my phone.”

“Bucky. That what the murder-bot calls himself?”

“He's not a robot, Mister Stark. Look, this is going to sound insane, but I think he's James Barnes. You know, Captain Rogers' James Barnes. Stop rolling your eyes at me this second, or I swear, you're going to be wearing the rest of that Jello.”

Tony does a double-take and leans closer to look at him more intently. “Your mom, man.”

“What?” He doesn't like the way Tony's looking at him, like he wants to pick him apart and find out what exists down deep on the molecular level.

“Nothing. Let me just go get the nurse. They wouldn't discuss your medical prognosis with me. You know, me not being family and all.”

Steve releases a pained sigh as soon as Stark disappears from his room. There are so many questions percolating, questions he needs to ask, things he should focus on, but all he can think about is how Bucky's going to look when he gets back to the house and finds it empty. He promised. Steve promised to stay and help him figure out his mission. He can only think of one possible scenario where this doesn't become screwed to Hell and back: sneak out of the hospital and make his way home, hopefully before Bucky has a chance to come back out of hiding.

That means leaving Jamie in the care of a bunch of strangers, fabulously wealthy strangers, sure, but strangers nonetheless. So he does the only thing he can. He calls her cell phone using the hospital land line in the hopes of explaining why he can't come home just yet, why he can't leave Bucky out in the cold alone instead of picking up where they left off.

She answers on the third ring.

“Hey, slugger.”

A beat of silence passes. “Stevie?”

“Yeah, it's me.”

Something clatters in the background, and it sounds like she drops the phone before getting anything else out. Finally, she says, “Where are you? Are you safe? Has he hurt you?”

“Hey, hey, slow down. I'm in a hospital in Pennsylvania. I'm safe. He hasn't hurt me.”

“Why are you in the hospital? I can get on a bus and come get you.”

“Just a bad cold. Passed out on a public street, so paramedics brought me in. Doll, I need you to stay right where you are, okay? You're safe with the Avengers. Tony Stark is here and told me they picked you up. Are you really having a spa day with Miss America?”

“Yeah. Later, we're making S'mores, but she says S'mores aren't nearly as fun now that she has to wear Stark's bracelet thing. It prevents her from running fast and kicking holes in reality.”

“What?” His voice is thick with alarm.

“Yeah! She can open holes in dimensions and travel to these amazing different realities. She once saw a place where everyone worships a giant mystical frog. Why can't I visit you?”

“Because it's not safe yet. Listen, I want to be with you so bad, but the guy who kidnapped me needs help. The people who sent him are using him against his will, and I'm the only one who'll believe him. If I don't help him, the authorities will shoot him on sight.”

She allows silence to stretch only to break it by asking if he still has their mother's rosary.

He tells her yes.

She asks why he wants to help someone who kidnapped him in the first place.

He says that Bucky is scared, alone, and doesn't know how to be a person anymore, and if he can do just one good thing in life, he wants it to be bringing a prisoner of war in from the cold.

She doesn't sound pleased by his infernal need to help people at the expense of his own welfare and asks why he can't just let the Avengers bring him in.

So he tells her that if the Avengers corner him, he'll either attack like a wild animal or go down fighting because he doesn't trust them. He doesn't trust anyone but Steve, and because Jamie has the world's biggest heart, she gives him her blessing. Besides, she's kind of having fun with America and doesn't get much chance to hang out with other female influences.

“And Steve,” she says before they can end the call. “I'll pray for him, okay?”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I'll pray for him, too.”

Steve ends the call just before Tony returns with a doctor in tow, who informs him he's suffering from a bad case of strep throat and prescribes a course of antibiotics. They're mostly concerned with how high his fever was when brought in by the paramedics and want to keep him overnight for observation just to make sure there aren't significant repercussions from a dangerously high temperature. He's fine with that. Gives him enough time to slip out against doctor's orders and get back to the house.

Tony gathers his things once the doctor leaves. “They'll probably release you in the morning. An agent will swing by, pick you up, and bring you back to Manhattan. We need to debrief you and reunite you with your sister. As delightful as Mini-Barnes is, she's still a shrieking teenager.”

“What about Bucky? What are you planning to do?”

“You let us worry about that, Kid. If he wants to come quietly, we'll make sure he's given his due process. If it turns out what you say is true, then I guess we'll jump that bridge if we come to it.”

The man doesn't sound very invested in the fact they may have found an American POW who was supposed to have died decades ago but who hasn't aged a day. That makes up Steve's mind even if he hadn't already made the decision. Tony Stark's good at caring about people as a community. He's bad at caring about individual specimens.

Before Tony can leave, he thinks to add, “You don't own the Iron Man painting. It was destroyed before any money could change hands, so you're not out the price Miss Potts and I agreed on.”

“Guess it is difficult to check your bank balance while being shot at and abducted. The transfer went through minutes after Miss Potts made the deal. I'm the proud owner of a partially damaged piece of fine art depicting Iron Man being heroic.”

Nothing can prepare him for that kind of generosity. He's not sure if Tony is telling the truth or trying to give him money as a means of charity. Poor, broke starving artist raising his teenaged sister? Might be good publicity for Stark. In the end, he decides not to make too much of it and waves as Stark leaves, still weak and groggy, so he takes a nap until it's closer to dark.

***

Jamie ends the call with her brother and drops her new Starkphone on the table next to her spa chair, mouth squirreling up in an unhappy little smile while the technician continues her pedicure. Next to her, America's head is cocked back against the headrest, a towel draped over her eyes, body as relaxed as America's ever gets. The soothing strains of Sigur Rós soothes tense muscles into unwilling relaxation until even Jamie manages to sink through the strain into a place of calm.

Naturally, that's when America's ankle bracelet starts squealing.

“Goddamnit!

“Language.”

“Don't you language me, Jamie.” America's hair is frizzy today, the other girl's super strength having broken the flat iron that is now resting in pieces on their bathroom sink.

“Well, don't say such foul things, and I won't have to pull the language card. Didn't your ma teach you any better than to use the Lord's name?”

America jerks her head up. “Moms. Didn't my moms teach me not to use the Lord's name.”

“Oh.”

“That's not gonna be a problem is it?”

“No! Of course not. My brother was married to a man. I just figured-- You speak Spanish. You're Latina. Figured you were raised Catholic.”

It garnered a little huff as the other girl fumbles with her phone to send a message back to Stark Tower. Moments later, the squealing of the ankle monitor eases. “Shows what you know, Kiddo.”

“Kiddo? You're only a year older than me!”

“And about a thousand years wiser.” A long-suffering sigh punctuates the comment. “Look. I'm Latin American the same way you're a Brooklynite. I lived there for a while, but I'm not from there. I'm from this place called the Utopian Parallel. It's-- You wouldn't understand.”

“Come on. I'm not a dumb kid. How am I gonna understand if you don't tell me?”

“It's an alternate dimension created by a magical presence from whence I got my powers. My moms--” She pauses and rubs the back of her hand over her eyes. “My moms died saving it from destruction by black holes. I didn't see much of a reason to hang around after that.”

“Oh.” Breathless, Jamie allows the silence to stretch for a beat. “That really sucks, losing your moms like that.” She's quiet again until the silence becomes uncomfortable. “Wanna go shoot spit wads at Dum-E and Butterfingers?”

America mimics her silence before responding, “Sure. Might be fun.”

The Stark car awaits them when they step out into the winter sunlight. It's a lifestyle she never conceived of, having a private car to take her on outings, being given an allowance account with more money than Steve and her see in a whole year's time. Her spending limit is more than the yearly tuition for Trinity, which she got into based on her grades with the tuition heavily subsidized through financial aid. 

Upon first arriving at the tower, Jamie quickly worked out a scheme where she transferred most of the account into a series of bank accounts spread throughout Brooklyn, which would amount to a nice college expense account when she graduated. Stark looked at her funny when he realized her account was so low but hadn't said anything to stop her from rerouting it.

They're both quiet during the ride back to the tower. America puts her earbuds in, foot bobbing along to the beat of whatever music she's listening to, but Jamie can't stomach music right now. Every time she tries opening her playlist, she remembers Steve and Mbali dancing around the apartment to whatever particular tract happened to be playing, and that kills her jive fast.

Silence reigns until they take the elevator up to Stark's level and skulk out to settle themselves in a little alcove dominated by potted palms where they hunker down to wait for the robots to leave his high security lab, which they aren't allowed inside, so they can take pot shots at them. Stark must be up to something important, as time stretches without his helper bots running any errands.

Jamie gets bored and traces her fingers along the grout pattern of the dark tiles covering the floor. Her companion is still listening to her music. Eventually, she elbows the other girl to get her to pay attention, which causes America to hiss.

“What?”

“So the anklet. Why does it screech?” Said anklet flashes a green light.

“You're the preparatory geek; you tell me.”

“The light only turns yellow when you're away from the tower, so I'm guessing it's some sort of monitoring thing. Like convicts wear when they're under house arrest. Only much more fashionable. Am I close?”

America cocks her frizzy head to one side. “You're not wrong.”

“So it has something to do with that accident that took place a while ago?”

The other girl looks slightly uncomfortable.

“Wait, they put an ankle monitor on you because of that?”

“People died, Bug.”

Jamie rolls her eyes. “If you're gonna call me a nickname, at least call me Bucket.” Then, a few moments later, she continues, “But it was an accident.”

“People still died.”

“Right. Right. Negligence. Someone argued that you were negligent, and as such, they considered you guilty of manslaughter. That's sick, though. A minute of your life, and you're a manslaughterer.”

“Got off pretty lucky,” America finally says. “Didn't have to go to jail.”

“Stark didn't protect you?”

“Come on, Kiddo--”

“Still not a kid.”

“You gotta decide between the viability of the Avengers and saving one extra-dimensional teenager. He's the only reason I'm not in prison. Cut a deal with the DA to get me remanded to his custody, but his condition was that I wear the ankle monitor and this thing.” She shook the cuff on her wrist.

“What is it?”

“Suppresses my powers. Not totally, of course. I'm stronger than your average teen as our flat iron can attest, but it also means I'm trapped here. Can't open any portals and disappear into other dimensions.” She wiggled her nose briefly and looked away in an attempt to hide her watery eyes. “Can't fly no more neither. Can't run. You got any idea what it feels like to be trapped in a human's speed?”

“Nuh uh.”

“It's like the air's made of concrete, and I can't slog through it. Sometimes it's so heavy I can--”

“You can what?”

“Never mind. So anyway, I'm grateful to him, I guess. Least I'm not in prison. I'd look terrible in an orange jumpsuit.”

Jamie doesn't know what to say to that information. On the one hand, she figures it's reasonable to suppress someone's power if they aren't mature enough to understand the consequences of their actions, but that's the thing, right? America was a kid when it happened. What in the blue blazes was Stark doing fielding a kid in a battle scenario? If they're going to hold teenaged heroes accountable for their actions, they need to not encourage those teenaged heroes to make life and death decisions that their oh-so-underdeveloped minds weren't prepared to parse the consequences for.

In a way, Tony Stark set America up for failure, and when she failed, he chose the Avengers over keeping her safe. Plus, there's the whole thing where Stark really doesn't deserve the right to change someone on their base molecular level. It's kind of like forcing a pit bull to become a chihuahua to get around anti-pit bull laws. You know, instead of changing the laws.

Reminds her of Stark's determination to bring in James Barnes, the easiest path to the solution of what Stark considers the problem so he can go back to his science labs building crazy things. Who cares what happens to James Barnes after the fact. Just like he clearly doesn't care what happens to America after the fact. That means Steve needs to be there for the Original Buchanan. Steve's going to be the only one sticking up for him, and that guy apparently needs a lot of people in his corner.

“What if I figured out how to help you take it off?”

“Hmm?” America glances up from her phone again.

“You say you're trapped here. That means you don't really want to be here, right? What if I help you figure out a way to disable the bracelet and ankle monitor?”

The other girl's expression turns cynical and as doubtful as a badly-stacked Jenga tower. “No offense, Kiddo, but these things were built by Tony Stark. You might be a preparatory kid, but you're not smart enough to outfox him and his goddamned AI.”

“Language.”

America huffs and makes a badly-formed sign of a cross: forehead, hip, shoulder, left boob.

It makes Jamie giggle.

America refuses to get out of bed the next morning.

Jamie dresses for school and skips down to the Stark car assigned to take her to the campus building, but once the car pulls around the corner from dropping her out front, she ditches class and hurries away to find an electronics outlet where she purchases a laptop computer and a mobile hot spot. She spends the rest of her school period in a nearby Starbucks using their free wi-fi to download the software she needs to protect her new laptop from Stark's network in the tower, to isolate it from the AI's all-seeing eye. Also, there are an unspecified number of Caramel Waffle Cone frapps involved. Steve will forgive her for being a little traitor who traitors for spending money at a corporate cafe.

America is still in bed by the time she returns from her school day, so she doesn't bother the girl and heads up to start making nice with Stark, because no one can say no to Jamie Roberts' big-eyed “I wanna learn” eyes. Thankfully, he's in one of his smaller labs today, and the doors swish open at her approach. She bellies up to his lab table, rests her elbows there, and plops her chin against her palm. Her glance bores into him for long moments in which he doesn't pay attention.

“What?” he finally demands.

“Chicken butt.”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Did you know your goatee looks like--”

“--a ballerina, I know. God, what is it with you Robertses?”

“I have a project at school.”

“Oh yeah? What's it about?”

“Computer stuff.”

“Look, can we not do the teenager thing where it takes us, like, twenty sentences to say what it should only take us, like, three sentences to say?”

“Like, like, like!”

Tony's eyes go a little googly.

“You said 'like.' Everybody's always picking on us millennials for not being able to speak without peppering our sentences with that word.”

His eyes roll so hard she can practically hear them clank off the bottom of a bucket.

“Okay, so. I have this project due at the end of the school year for my computers class that requires us to code our own software program. I kind of have a good idea of what I want the program to do, but you being a genius and all.... Well, I thought you could show me how you made JARVIS. Or maybe just a few snippets of what went into making JARVIS.”

“You want to build your own Jay for a sophomore computer sciences project?”

“Well, yeah.”

The guy looks at her funny again, like he can't figure out where she's going with this or whether she's a real teenager or some sort of alien. She wants to tell him that she isn't a teenager or an alien; she's a bucket, and buckets are better than teenagers and aliens.

“Sure. Sure, I could teach you some things, but you'd better not flake out on me half-way through.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Jamie Buchanan Roberts winds up getting Tony Stark's passcodes into JARVIS' mainframe so she can look up the schematics on America's ankle bracelet and power suppressor. There's nothing so manipulative as a pair of teenaged big-eyes eager to learn from an eccentric, billionaire genius who lives for hearing himself talk.

***

To say that the Asset has had a bad day is putting things mildly— _like milk-toast mildly the way ma used to make it when Stevie's tummy was upset._ Saying that the Asset has had a no good, rotten, ass-tasticly awful day is a better descriptive, so when he pulls himself into the foreclosure through an upper floor window, he just wants to give Stevie his meds, collapse, and kick his feet like a three year old. He can't remember if he's ever engaged in a childish temper tantrum, but it sounds like appropriate behavior after being cornered by enemy combatants and shot—again—by law enforcement.

He huffs, braces himself with hands on knees while trying to get his breath back. When it comes, it comes weakly while his body fights to expel the bullet lodged near his spine so it can begin the process of healing. He's ninety percent certain his body will get rid of the bullet on its own. If not, Stevie will need to dig it free once his hands are steady.

“Steve, I have what you--” Communication ends abruptly as he enters an empty room. The little space heater still ran, but the mound of cloth is empty.

His heart skips a beat.

Breath chokes him. It's like swallowing a lungful of campfire smoke in that it feels like a physical plug that must be gritted down. Empty. His rate of breath increases by a considerable percentage. In an effort to stave off the panic attack, he pads into the bathroom. Empty. Boots covered in the blood of his enemies tromp down the stairs to check the kitchen. Empty. 

Gone.

Steve is gone.

No handlers. No base of operations. No intel. No reluctant mission assist. No Steve Rogers. No Steve Roberts. No Stevie. Alone. Alone and malfunctioning. Alone and malfunctioning and injured. 

The Asset crumples the bag of medicines in the metal fist. He should have complied with the enemy combatants who knew the words. It strikes him then that only KGB handlers know the words, that knowing the words meant those people he killed were his chance to go home again, to go back to the cold oblivion of the chamber where nothing hurts and the malfunction doesn't happen. They weren't the enemy. They were his only hope.

The Asset presses knuckles into both temples, and he barely registers the wet tracks down his cheeks. Home. He just wants to go home, to go back to where things make sense and he isn't expected to operate independently. He gave up that chance because of Stevie, because Stevie was waiting for him to bring back medication to keep him from dying.

There is no going home, never again, not after killing handlers to avoid being made to comply. Mission failure on top of lethal force equals too much of a risk to send on field missions. Too much of a risk for missions means a useless weapon, and that means decommissioning. Useless weapons aren't worth the resources of keeping them alive. He must turn himself over and receive punishment or render appropriate punishment himself. His flesh hand drifts toward the sidearm under his jacket.

It's not so bad, he assumes. The oblivion of cold isn't much different from the oblivion of no longer being. Breath sounds increase again, making him feel lightheaded between the lack of oxygen and the loss of blood. A soft, plaintive sound tears up his vocal cords, and he flails wildly, fist crashing into and denting the white of the refrigerator door. No longer being won't be so bad. It's what malfunctioning weapons deserve, after all.

And he tries not to think about Steve giving him part of a cheeseburger, about robin's egg blue eyes looking at him with compassion while giving a bowl of red soup and melted cheese, about a warm body reminding him how to breathe with arms around his chest and familiar breath against the back of his neck. Steve was his handler-- Steve was his... friend. But Steve left. Some broken sound he doesn't recognize must come from his own lungs, like a wounded animal howling in pain. _Should have known better, pal. Weapons don't have friends. You didn't try hard enough at being a human._

Lips wobble uncontrollably, and he goes down on his knees with the sidearm in hand. Checks the clip. Checks the chamber. Punishment is deserved. Malfunctioning weapons must be decommissioned, must be recycled. Weapons don't kill their handlers. Weapons don't misremember mission parameters. Weapons aren't meant to operate independently without parameters.

He squeezes his eyes closed and raises the barrel of his pistol to his mouth. Blowing your brains out is messy and not always accurate. Angle the shot to take out the brain stem. Brain stem controls breathing, heart rate, sleeping, basic bodily functions. Take out the brain stem for a sure result.

“Bucky?”

The Asset stills. He can't even feel the flutter of his own heartbeat.

“Bucky, can I have the gun?”

Eyes fly open to see Steve kneeling in front of him. Doesn't know how Steve got into the room without him hearing, without him realizing he was being watched, but he's there. The Asset closes his eyes. Opens them again to make sure he's not hallucinating, that Steve being there isn't a malfunction.

Steve remains with eyes full of concern and body still, quiet like a deer with its white tail a flag of alarm searching for a predator, his hand thrust out to take the weapon.

“Please. Can I have the gun?”

The Asset shakes his head. “Punishment. Mission parameters unknown. Killed handlers. Can't go home anymore. Malfunctioning weapon must be decommissioned. Mission assist left.”

“You're not a weapon, Bucky.”

“I am-- It is.”

“You're not, and I'm right here. I promised you I was going to help you complete your mission. Remember? I'm not going to break my promise to you. But you have to give me the gun, okay? Give me the gun, and we'll do this together.”

“Don't know how to be a person.”

“That's okay, babydoll. You don't have to be anything or do anything. You can have my friendship just the way you are, but I can't watch you hurt yourself, okay? I don't want you to go.”

The Asset feels his muscles defying mission failure protocols. They shake uncontrollably, and he can't say at that moment that he's safe with a weapon, not when he's shaking so hard he might not angle the shot appropriately and cause damage without death. He doesn't want to be, but he also doesn't want to be a vegetable. Finally, with a huff of frustration and a few more tears, he removes the clip, pops the bullet from the chamber, and settles the gun in Steve's outstretched hand.

Steve starts trembling suddenly and hurries forward on his knees to wrap warm arms around the Asset's body. The Asset shouldn't respond. He doesn't deserve good feelings but can't prevent himself from collapsing forward to hide his face against Steve's shoulder. Soft sounds escape. Steve hasn't left him.

Time slips through his fingers while he burrows into Stevie's embrace. He tries to remove his consciousness from reality to escape the feelings. Before, when he wasn't malfunctioning, he didn't experience the tumultuous mass that is emotion, and he knows those emotions are a malfunction but can't seem to stop them no matter how badly he wishes to. All he can do is drown in them, bob in deep waters with his nose occasionally surfacing long enough to inhale a quick breath.

This time, his consciousness refuses to disengage, so he feels too much, experiences too much, drowns in it with no knowledge about how to cope. He doesn't even know he's crying again until the wetness saturating Steve's shoulder becomes sticky against his face. It isn't just malfunctioning at this point; he's outright broken and doesn't think there are enough chairs in the world to fix him.

“Better?” Steve asks when his wounded baby noises ease.

The Asset shakes his head.

“S'okay. You don't have to be better. It's okay if you feel broken and wrong inside. Still doesn't mean I'm leaving you behind. But can we maybe take this to the sofa? My knees are starting to ache.”

The Asset shakes his head again.

“No, we can't take this to the sofa?”

The Asset nods.

“Can we sit down on the floor? I don't want to let go of you, but I really need to sit down.”

Fair compromise, he figures, so he eases down onto his butt in the middle of the kitchen despite the roaches and fleas and refuses to pull himself away from his handle—his... Stevie. Takes him a while longer before he starts processing the minutia of his surroundings. They're on the cold floor. No big deal for him, but Steve is... too warm. Fever.

The Asset makes another wounded noise and yanks away to touch Steve's face all over. “Medicine.” His voice cracks. “Got the medicine here somewhere.”

“Good, because I could use some of that Nyquil. Thanks, pal.” The man tries for a bright smile but looks too miserable for it to appear anything but a grimace. “Actually, that's why I'm late. You didn't come back. I was afraid something had happened, so when I saw the police lights down at the 7-11, I walked down to see what was going on.”

“You went out in the cold?” His best dangerous-asset-predator face doesn't seem to have an effect on Steve anymore.

“I had to. I was going crazy sitting here worrying about you. Anyhow, I passed out in public, and someone called the paramedics. Woke up in the hospital where they were treating me for a dangerously high fever. I have strep throat. Got some antibiotics and stuff.” He removes a bottle from his pocket and rattles the pills inside. “I had to pay for them with my bank card, so if you want to move location, that's okay. Oh, the Avengers know where I am.”

That tenses the Asset like barbed wire stretched too tightly.

“Guess Stark picked up on me being registered at the hospital and flew down. He's supposed to send a car for me in the morning to pick me up at the hospital, so if we're going to move, we should do it tonight. Stop looking at me like that. Told you I was going to help you with your mission.”

“Why?” The Asset tries again at Steve's confused expression. “Why stay with me? Could have gone back to Jamie.”

The man is quiet for a couple of minutes while turning something over in his mind. It reminds the Asset of before—of before the Asset was born—and Steve Rogers' terrible poker face. Too expressive for his own damn good.

Finally, he says, “Because Jamie's safe. She has a friend now. The Avengers are looking after her, and you don't have anyone in the entire world in your corner. Now you've got me.”

The Asset isn't sure what to say to that. Maybe no words are necessary at all. Not even his handlers had been in his corner the way Steve professed to be. He knows he was useful to them. He knows that giving him cheeseburgers and allowing him to take a warm bath instead of hosing him down were means of keeping him functional. They weren't signs of—of—of caring that he was functional beyond that he completed his missions efficiently. Enter Steve Roger—Steve Roberts.

“Why?” he finally asks, settling on pinching his eyebrows together to express confusion.

“Because you're worth it.”

“Why? Not him. Can never be him again, the person whose face I wear. Haven't earned you.”

“You don't have to earn it. You can just have it, have me in your corner, because a lot of really bad people did a lot of really bad stuff that you absolutely did not deserve, and it's about damn time someone cared about what happens to you.”

“Wh--”

“I swear to Christ if you ask me why again, I'm going to vomit on your boots.”

“You're not supposed to take that tone of voice with the mentally ill, Stevie,” he says with the tiniest of smiles. Was he supposed to try for humor? The tension, he thought, needed to ebb.

Steve's bark of laughter startles him, but it also leads into a fit of coughing that hunches the man's shoulders and has him shaking in an effort to expel the gunk in his lungs.

The Asset—Bucky eases to his feet and reaches down to heft Steve against his side, and when Steve stumbles at the bottom of the stairs, Bucky lifts him from his feet to carry him the rest of the way back to the bedroom they share. Then he runs back down to get a glass of water and makes his companion take his medication. He remembers the package of peanut butter cups at the last moment, at which point, he opens it.

“Share?” Bucky asks, just then realizing he bought the treat as much for himself as for Steve.

That seems to be the right thing to say, as Steve's face lights up. Slender, artist hands brush against his and send a riot of emotions tingling up his spine. Said fingers caress the underside of his wrist following the feint blue lines of his vessels. Bucky shivers.

“Share,” Steve agrees.

But Bucky-- Bucky is lost in a quagmire of malfunctioning. [Strong, thick hands skimming up his body. A familiar mouth devouring his. Breath mingling with breath as they share oxygen. The glide of a hard cock against his own. Overwhelming musk of sex. Need—want—drowns the night sounds outside a tent. A small gas lamp illuminates blonde hair, broad shoulders, a face he's loved since childhood. Breath catches. The tiniest of sounds. Stay quiet so the others don't hear. Steve moves inside him. “With these hands, I give you my heart and crown it with my love.”]

He's grateful Steve sleeps almost immediately after finishing the sugary treat, because Bucky's body is doing something he can't remember it ever doing before. Stumbling to his feet, he rushes into the bathroom to hide, to hide and ease the tightness of his pants to look down at the swollen erection stretching for his navel. He looks at it like a foreign thing as much as the tingle and zing of electricity fires up his spine into his brain. This, he thinks, is want of the basest inclination.


	6. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset begins to express his wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for memories of rape/non-con and possible child abuse.

They wind up in Rhode Island in an abandoned model home meant to attract up-and-comers to the Shady Waters community. Plans for expanding the subdivision fell apart during the 2008 housing collapse, and the development sits abandoned but for a few stragglers who'd moved in before the economy took a Greg Louganis into the shitter. The lack of tight-knit community means they can pull their stolen ride straight into the garage without their presence being noticed. Having gas, running water, and power mean Steve can drag his sorry carcass into the master bathroom and shower until his pores become Lake Eerie. It may be better to describe said pores as Mount Kilauea for the steam wafting off his body when he finally turns off the spray.

He hasn't recovered from strep throat yet, but the antibiotics have gone a long way in making him feel more human and less walking germ factory. However, he's taken so long in the bathroom that Bucky knocks and inquires if he's drowned. He is quick to remind his companion that if he has drowned, he won't be able to give audible confirmation of said asphyxiation. It's enough to finally pry him from the bathroom where, much to his surprise, he finds Bucky shoving a stack of fresh clothing toward him, a pair of comfortable sweats, a gray t-shirt, and the accompanying undergarments.

Steve looks a little uncertain and plucks at a tag, waving it in Bucky's general direction because the last thing he wants is his companion going around stealing on his behalf. He would rather continue wearing the suit slacks and shirt he was abducted in, but Bucky huffs at the implication and claims to have paid cash. After all, stealing from a major retail chain would come with unwanted attention.

Point, and he moves into the bathroom to get dressed, feeling more human than he has since this whole thing started. Even takes the initiative to dig a razor and some shaving cream out of their essentials kit and shaves off the patchy scruff that is the Steve Roberts equivalent of a beard. It was better known by his sister as “you look like a dog with mange.” Sometimes Jamie is incredibly cruel.

When he finally emerges and moves to curl up on the actual bed inside the actual master bedroom, he finds Bucky staring at the computer built into his arm and frowning. Steve sits forward a little to look over the man's shoulder, but Bucky skitters away from the contact like a Jesus bug skating across the surface of water. Steve holds up his hands and gentles his approach.

“S'okay, Buck. Just me. Whatcha looking at?”

Buck makes a formless sound but doesn't entirely settle.

His companion doesn't speak for so long that Steve figures he's not in a talkative mood and starts moving away.

Bucky finally say, “The men I killed spoke the words. The words caught in my mind.” Another length of silence follows. “My mission is somehow connected to the words.” More silence. He moves to sit sideways on the edge of the bed, raising a knee onto the mattress to brace himself. He thrusts his arm toward Steve. Shakes it when Steve doesn't move quickly enough to come closer.

Steve looks down at the screen and summons up what knowledge he remembers from his Russian language courses. It's just enough to make out the Cyrillic text that presently displays “Longing.” Below it and in smaller letters, he reads “Husband.” His brow furrows.

“This is one of the words you're so afraid of?”

“Not afraid.”

“This is one of the words you're not afraid of?”

He nods quickly.

“The words make my brain hurt.”

Steve watches him, expecting he will continue.

He does moments later. “They make me...” Another beat of silence. “Numb. I want them. They will make everything easier. But the words will make me forget again.”

“Forget what?”

Time grinds against sandpaper. “You.”

And Steve can't just let that go, can't allow Bucky to slide into the belief that he is the man Bucky remembers, so he says, “I'm not him, Buck.” Part of him hates the words, spits them like poisonous bile in the hopes ejaculating them will expel the sensations from his body. Because he wants to be him. For Bucky, he wants to be Steve Rogers, but it would be wrong to allow Buck to continue believing that. Nothing healthy could come from imitating the man's long-dead husband. “I'm not him. I'm not Steve Rogers. You can't keep treating me like I am.”

Buck drops his glance, tucks his chin against his chest, and hunches a little like a dog who's had its nose rubbed in its own mess for being bad.

“Bucky.” He sidles closer, close enough their shoulders bump. “Sometimes I wish I was him. Maybe then I could make you feel safe and wanted, but I can't let you believe a lie. I won't manipulate you.”

A bubble pops. His companion evacuates the bed and hurries across to their gear to grab a protein bar. The way he moves is jerky, manic, like he's moving just to cover the fact that he's experiencing emotion. He eats half the bar in a single bite while looking at a picture of a stork hanging on the wall. In between bites, he says, “The word was in the nanotechnology processors from your painting.”

Steve doesn't know what to make of that. “We need a computer or a cellphone that has access to the internet. I'm pretty sure that if we look up the paint factory, we can find some kind of manifest as to where they ship their product. If we can find that, we can start narrowing down where the rest of the processors have gone.”

“No cell phone.”

“Bucky.”

“Last time you had a cell phone, you called people.”

“That was before I agreed to help you. Look, if you won't let me have a phone, our only other option is to find a local library and use their computers. And if we're going to find a library to use their computers, you need another shower and to cut your damn hair and shave your damn face. You look like a homeless meth addict. I guarantee you that if we go into a public place with you looking the way you do, we're going to attract attention.”

“Wrong interpretation.”

“What?”

“I do not look like a meth addict. Too much meat and muscle.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine, word police. You look like a heroine addict.”

His companion's lips twitch.

“Wait, are you smiling at me? Did you just make a joke?” Then, a moment later after he's had a moment to bask in the wonder, he says, “You did!”

Excitement bounds Steve across the room where he throws both arms around the other man's shoulders, Steve standing on tip-toe, and bodies pressed flush together, and for a moment, he feels the heat of his companion's body, feels the weight of the man's groin pressed firmly against him. Breath catches in his throat. His glance stutters somewhere mid-chest before traversing the rest of the way to Bucky's face. Once there, he drowns slowly in the icy waters of the man's eyes. He wants. He wants that powerful body beneath him, wants to unravel it, to open Bucky like a Christmas present.

Fuck, he says to himself. Last thing he needs is to lust after an emotionally damaged amnesiac who spent seventy years as a prisoner of war and whose long-dead husband he's named after. Thinking about the moral implications is too damned uncomfortable, so he squashes the burgeoning lust like a roach to his shoe heel. Can't. Won't. Will never.

With a sigh, he pulls away and is made uncertain by the strange expression Bucky wears. The man's eyes have darkened to thin slivers of iris surrounding large pupils. That look dissipates rapidly once their bodies are no longer touching, and Steve chooses to interpret that as a bad sign. Bucky didn't struggle against the touch, but he just can't be certain that reciprocation of lust isn't another ingrained response by handlers who'd treated him like an object.

In a quieter voice, he says, “I should take my antibiotics and find something to eat. Do you want--”

A razor-sharp shake of his companion's head.

“You don't even know what I was going to ask.”

A nod.

Steve plants both fists on his hips and shakes his head in an exaggerated fashion.

“Don't need calories. Protein bar.”

Well, maybe Barnes _had_ known what Steve was going to ask. “Protein bars aren't enough.”

Another quick whip of Barnes' head.

“Bucky, you have to eat--”

Narrowed eyes.

“Please--”

“Don't want,” he snaps.

And Steve isn't at all certain where the attitude comes from, and why Bucky is suddenly against eating real food, but the why of it doesn't entirely matter when the man stated a clear preference. Overriding that preference isn't much different from how the evil people had treated Buck. People are allowed wants. Their wants are to be respected, and one night without a decent meal won't drastically change Bucky's weight. Or lack thereof. But denying him his basic human want will cause more damage than good. Steve's shoulders slump.

He stomps through the house like a petulant child and into the kitchen where he earlier deposited their foodstuffs. It occurs to him once there that he meant to ask Bucky about where he's getting his money, but broaching the topic now seems distasteful. Clearly, his hug and the resultant lust had disturbed his companion on a fundamental level, enough to snap the earlier teasing mood into something cooler and more recalcitrant. Questions might cause the mood to deteriorate further.

Miserably, Steve stands over the gas stove making scrambled eggs while listening to the sound of the shower upstairs kick on which brings a modicum of relief, relief that he won't have to run a soapy washcloth over that man's body and be asked to maintain an ounce of professionalism. He looks down at his wayward crotch and says, “Fuck you, pal.” If his crotch possessed an ounce of sapience, it would have said “We're trying, buddy.” Deep breaths and thinking about how morally repugnant it is to have lustful thoughts about a man as emotionally stunted as Bucky finally deflates the half-chub of eagerness. Finally.

Some primordial part of him buried deep in his genetic code has a temper tantrum that causes his pores to prickle with goosebumps. That part of him that possesses the DNA of Steve Rogers, introduced into his genes while developing in his mother's womb, is not a happy camper because-- because... Because Bucky! And Steve is assailed by a dizzying sense of otherness, of déjà vu screaming that he's been in this position before, that two slivers of reality are overlaid like ribbons of candy folded by a taffy puller. Vague nausea accompanies the sensation, and he loses his appetite for scrambled eggs.

Later, after having forced himself to consume said eggs to keep them from going to waste, he climbs the stairs back to the master bedroom and stops dead in his tracks, overwhelmed by the sight of James Barnes standing by the bed wearing jeans, a black sweater (v-neck), and a wine-colored racer jacket (leather). His hair is slicked back (and is cut closer to his neck), and he's shaved down to a light ghost of stubble. He looks so young without the beard and the heavy veil of hair.

Steve's heart stutters. “Wow.”

Bucky rubs the naked back of his neck and pigeon-toes one black, zip-up boot inward.

Steve wants to reach for a bucket to drool in, and that whole pep-talk he gave himself while making eggs disappears in the face of the perfection standing in front of him. Steve Rogers wholeheartedly agrees with his assessment. “You look-- Wow.”

“Bad or good?”

“Good. Very good.” His heart stutters again, and he thinks about reaching for his heart medication. Gone is the brainwashed super-assassin. Someone has left a stylish sex god in his place. Stop it with the problematic lust, pal, he tells himself in an effort to rein it back in.

“I haven't--” Buck stops himself to reconsider his comment. “The lady at the thrift store said it would be in style. Never really had missions that required me to look normal.”

“You don't look normal.”

A brief flash of hurt pinches the other man's expression.

“N-no, no. C-crap, my stupid mouth,” he stutters. “You don't look normal, because you look better than normal. But why did you buy my clothes at Target but yours at a thrift shop?”

Bucky shrugs in response.

Steve doesn't need to dig deep to search for the solution. It's just like how Steve is allowed to have food while Buck won't take it unless Steve offers. Just like how Bucky is allowed to take care of Steve but won't ask to have his bullets removed unless Steve offers. Because deep down, Bucky doesn't think he's worth equal treatment, doesn't think to want being taken care of. Probably thinks of it as necessary maintenance. The thought turns Steve's stomach.

“Hey.” He ducks his head and looks up into the down-slanted head of the man in front of him with a soft smile, just a lift of the corner of his mouth. Jamie calls it his Golden Retriever smile. “Doesn't matter where the clothes came from, Buck. You look incredible.”

When Bucky finally speaks, his voice is like mousse with a sandpaper chaser. “Used to like looking nice. I think. Sometimes I can remember before I was born, but it's all a jumbled mess.”

He risks taking a step closer, risks snaking thin fingers around the hand Bucky's stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. “S'okay, pal. You're allowed to be a mess. The things they did to you--” He has to take a breath to steady his voice. “You're allowed to feel however you feel. Still gonna be right there beside you because I'm with you to the end of the line.”

“Why? You don't even know me.” The man's voice is breath without resonance.

“I know enough to know that you haven't hurt me, that you do more for me than for yourself, that you risked your life to get medication for me, that people have done awful things to you, and that it's not your fault these people have done awful things to you.”

“Only did all those things so I can go home.” The man looks away then to blink back the sheen of moisture that has sprung to his eyes.

“I know. But you still did them.” His heart aches something fierce, and he just can't stop himself from reaching up to take the moisture away with pad of his thumb. Maybe it's an excuse to be able to cup the man's face in one hand. Maybe it's something else.

Clearly uncomfortable with hearing positive things about himself, Bucky refuses to make eye contact, centers his gaze, instead, on the wall behind Steve's shoulder while a muscle in his jaw twitches. The moment snaps with the shift of the man's body from cautiously aware to tense. “We should get moving. Did you take your antibiotics?”

Steve pulls away like touching Bucky burns and straightens himself. “Yes, I did.” And he curses himself for doing something so intimate and putting any kind of pressure on the man. It was a stupid impulse that never should have manifested, not with a man as vulnerable and skittish as Bucky.

***

The Asset—Bucky remembers the ghost of Steve's fingers, that softer-than-velvet texture of artist hands catching against the stubble that remained after shaving. He wants. His want is so heavy in his loins that wearing pants and tight boxer briefs is uncomfortable, and dealing with that sort of want is new and frightening. Sure, there had been some comfort when his handlers had touched him, had opened him up and used his hole for their pleasure, but with some distance between then and now, he finally understands that it was never about his comfort. It was about slaking their lust.

But he can't reconcile being used as a receptacle for their deposit with being comforted by the act. Can't reconcile his body—the machine's body—coming when his handlers had never given half-a-shit about attending to his pleasure. Why would you attend to a machine's pleasure when the very nature of a machine doesn't experience its own wants and desires? They used him like a pocket vagina, and he orgasmed in spite of his non-entity status. How could his body do that?

Something separates inside him, two halves breaking apart to protect the nerve center that is James Barnes. Detachment raises consciousness above the sensory information of physical so that he's no longer there even if his body continues on muscle memory. Time slides away. Physical snarls at a woman who comes too close on the sidewalk. The mission assist curls fingers around his wrist.

_“Don't touch me, Steve,”_ Stream of Consciousness pleads. _“Please, don't touch me.”_

**Touch.** _Danger._

**Touch.** _Pain._

**Touch.** _Maintenance._

**Touch.** _Repair._

**Touch.** _Relief._

**Touch.** _At least they aren't beating us._

**Touch.** [Fingers circle his hole teasingly. A Christmas morning smile. Sunlight causing a halo around his husband's blond hair. Glints off golden wedding ring. “Do you got any idea how much I love you, babydoll?” Breath stutters in his throat. Catches on His name. Want. Need. Love. Warmth. Hips snap forward to take the fingers deeper.]

**Touch.** _Better the pressure against our prostate than beating._

**Touch.** _Anything is better than when they punish us._

**Touch.** [“Stop teasing and fuck me,” he pleads. “We're not fucking,” Steve says with a chuckle, “we're making love.” “Then stop teasing and make love to me, punk.” Heavy weight in the cradle of his thighs. Tight abs causing much-needed friction on his prick. Big hands—A soldier's hands. A thick cock pressing into him, and “Oh God, sweetheart.”]

**Touch.** _Fuck, please._

**Touch.** _Please don't stop._

**Touch.** [Fingers dig into the ridges of muscle on either side of his husband's spine. Pressure, incredible pressure when a hard erection nails his prostate repeatedly. Legs climb higher on His miraculous back. The weight of His balls impacting against his tailbone.]

**Touch.** _You'll hurt me again when you stop._

**Touch.** [“Yes! Oh, Stevie, yes!”]

**Touch.** _Yes, but only to keep the pain from coming._

**Touch.** _This is wrong._

**Touch.** [“Harder, sweetheart. I'm close. So fucking close.”]

**Touch.** _We need the endorphins to get through the pain._

**Touch.** _Orgasm._

**Touch.** [He comes with a shattered sound, ribbons of pearls dotting his own stomach and chest. Steve, shuddering, releases inside him. He can feel his husband's cock pulsing inside. “That's it, sweetheart. I got you. I always got you.”]

“Hey. Fuck. Bucky, I need you to look at me. I need you to breathe, babydoll. Please, breathe.”

The Asset doesn't know where he is when conscious returns to physical, doesn't know what his surroundings are like, and for a horrifying moment, he doesn't even know the man crouched in front of him with hands gripping either side of his face. “Don't touch,” he croaks.

The mission assist jerks both hands away. “Okay. I won't touch you.”

Needs to scan surroundings. Needs to determine location. Needs to find handlers. Needs to report for maintenance and the chair. Can't do any of that while malfunctioning. Why is he malfunctioning so badly? Too many weeks since last recalibration. Can't stay away from the chair and home for that long without malfunctions becoming exponential. Has to find handlers. Has to stop malfunctioning. Has to stop remembering before birth.

“Fuck.” It tears out of him, and he rakes fingers through sweaty hair, allows his head to thump against exposed brick behind his head. Does it again upon realizing the discomfort helps to ground him. One more time and hard enough to cause a goose egg.

“Stop that!” The mission assist skitters forward to jam hands behind the Asset's head to cushion it.

“Don't touch,” he snarls with more force.

“I'm not touching!” snaps the mission assist. “You're touching whenever you bang your head against my hands. I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself.”

“Get away!” Both hands lodge against the mission assist's chest and exert pressure, enough to move the man out of his personal space, and if said mission assist winds up on his ass a few feet away, well, then it was his fault for not doing as instructed.

The man's bottom lip warbles, and he looks up from the ground with watery blue eyes.

The Asset doesn't have the mental capacity right now to be sorry for its actions. 

He presses both hands over his face in an effort to find some kind of focus. _Calm down, pal._ (We are fucking calm!) _Sure, if you think having a conversation with multiple parts of your fractured psyche and shoving the reincarnation of Steve Rogers like he's a fucking enemy is calm. Pal._ (What did you say?) _You got moth in your ears? That's our formerly-dead-but-reborn husband, and I for one would like this second chance to have a life with him. Or, you know, you could go on hitting things._ (Fuck you.) _No thanks. Don't make a habit of fucking assholes._ A beat of silence passes. _Right, to clarify, I do make a habit of fucking assholes, or rather, one particular asshole, but I don't make a habit of fucking the other half of my fractured personality that is behaving like an asshole. Pal._ (Eat me.) _See above._ (Die in a fire.) _Let's jot down “suicidal ideation” on our list of mental health problems._ (Fuck, I hate you.) _Feeling's mutual, pal. Feeling's very fucking mutual._ (Stop trying to have the last word. I'm having the last word.) _My body. My right to the last word._ (It's my body, too!) _It was mine first, jack-hole!_ (God, I can't believe I'm stuck with you.) _Feeling's mutual, pal. Very fucking mutual._

“Both of you shut up!” Bucky shouts while gripping either side of his head.

Minutes crawl past with Steve sitting on one side of the alley and Bucky on the other. The scent of garbage and human filth permeates enough of his senses that he realizes their location and understands how very unwelcome being surrounded by so much filth is at present. His consciousness stutters to life, and he jerks back to his feet to scan their surroundings for any sign of danger. Nothing seems out of the ordinary but for Stevie huddling in a crouch with arms wrapped around knees looking miserable and pissed off. Good. About time Steve realizes how much of danger he is.

“I'm...” There aren't any words to convey how much he regrets Steve being put into a position that will lead to him being hurt. “Sorry. S-sorry. Wasn't you. I'm fucked up, Stevie.”

Steve is quiet for a minute before his shoulders tense. “You're not allowed to put your hands on me in anger, okay? You're allowed to feel the way you feel. You're allowed to be fucked up, but you can't hurt me. Do you understand? I won't let you hurt me.”

Bucky nods once. “Good. But I asked for space, and you didn't give it to me. That's not okay either.” He's momentarily surprised by his insight into the situation.

“I would have if you hadn't started bashing your head against the wall.”

“Can't die that way. Fell several hundred feet into a valley. Bashed my head and everything else on the way own. Didn't die. You gotta protect yourself when I'm like that, pal, or this isn't gonna work, 'cause my capacity to hurt you is a lot greater than my capacity to hurt me.”

Steve is quiet for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” Seconds scrape by. “Okay, deal. But can I make sure you didn't break your skull?”

A quick nod. Bracing himself, he clutches fingers into fists and plants both feet apart to prepare for his handler's touch. Can't strike a handler. Must submit to physical inspection as a prelude to maintenance. Allow all handlers to perform maintenance.

Hands brush through his hair with a gentle touch, seeking, looking for the point of trauma. They prod the lump rising on the back of his skull. Bucky twinges. Steve cringes and mutters a quick apology. Fingers vacate his personal space slowly so that he can keep an eye on where the man's hands are at any given time. A rush of relief sags his body.

“Don't think it's broken, but you have a nasty lump coming up. Do you want to go back to the house?”

Bucky shakes his head.

The remainder of the trip to the library is blessedly uneventful.

Upon arriving through the front doors, Bucky, eyes wide and feeling suddenly overwhelmed, spins on a heel to march right back out followed by the shriek of children playing some game in a meeting room. Steve snags the back collar of his jacket. Brings him to a halt mid-step. He whips narrowed, displeased eyes in his handle—in Steve's direction.

“Not here,” he says. “Too much noise.”

“Fine. Then I'll go and use the computer myself. Just wait outside and try to look non-threatening. I realize that's a tall order for you, pal, but you don't want--”

“No.”

A long-suffering sigh gusts up from Steve's lungs.

“Still no.”

“You won't let me have a phone. You won't get a laptop. Now you won't go in the library or allow me to go in the library without you. Look, pal, we're running out of options. Starting to wonder if you don't want to complete this mission after all.”

Petulant eyes. Hands, both covered by thin suede gloves, jam into his pockets. Chin tilts toward stubbornness in complete refusal to even consider Steve's statement. He wants to finish the mission. Honest! Except, there's a large knot of anxiety damming the pit of his stomach at the idea of finishing.

Another sigh accompanied by his mission assist rubbing a hand across a beloved face. “Look, I'm tired. My head hurts. My arthritis is acting up, and I want to go home and sleep. We either do this, or we don't, but I really hope we do this.”

Hearing about Stevie's complaints opens a different set of emotions: the want to ease them. If easing them means going into the library with all those screaming children, he supposes that's what he has to do. Fingers clenched in tight fists, he braves the den of monsters on reluctant steps, sliding one foot forward and checking his position in relation to the meeting room. Another gliding step. Toes edge an invisible line that will take him parallel to the open doors. High-pitched giggles and shrieks displease his ears, make him want to back-pedal into Steve again.

_Most feared assassin on the planet, and you can't even brave a room full of kids, pal. Fine. Those shrieks are pretty annoying. We go on three. Right? One. Two. Th--_ The Asset streaks across the front of the doors and dodges around a wrack of video games to get out of sight of the little monsters. His heart thunders. Nails-on-chalkboard squeals from little demons who don't know how to modulate their own volume. Nails-on-chalkboard-noise.... Phantom pain.

[Sister Mary Clarence squeals nails across a blackboard. “James Buchanan Barnes, front and center.” Reluctance. Shrunken shoulders. Should have known better than to say that God doesn't exist in front of Teacher. He's in for it now. “Palms down. Knuckles up.” Comply. A yard stick cracks across his knuckles. “Repent, James.” Shake of the head. Another crack. “Repent for denying God.” Lips in a tight line. Shake of the head. “Repent or risk your eternal soul.” “God don't exist! God wouldn't'a taken Stevie's dad if he was there!” Teacher shoves him face-down on her desk. Whips his trousers down in front of the class. Sharp crack of wood against bare ass cheeks. Hot tears on face. Again. Again. Again. “Repent!” “Never!” Ma looks disappointed when she comes to collect him from school and endures an hour long lecture from Headmaster while Bucky is shuffled into confession.]

 

Steve's pretty sure that today is one of those days neither of them should have gotten out of bed. Watching Bucky disappear—again—to be replaced by that mask of nothingness damn near makes him walk right into the other room to tell the little kids to shut their traps. He's ninety percent certain it's the squealing little kids who've set him off this time, but all Steve can do is stand in front of Bucky and try to shield him from some of the noise and from the prying eyes of other patrons.

“Sorry,” he says when someone else notices the spacey look in Bucky's eyes and veers away. “Combat vet. He just needs a little space.”

There's sympathy in the woman's eyes, and she gives them the space they need.

Moments later, Bucky shakes his head as though to clear the fog and slouches forward until a sticky forehead lands on Steve's shoulder. For his part, Steve wraps him up tight and makes soothing noises to give the other man something to concentrate on. At least this time isn't accompanied by the violence of earlier, the violence that caused Bucky to shove him. His chest is still a little sore from the impact of the metal arm against his sternum. He might be bruised later.

When Bucky has enough situational awareness that they're able to continue, Steve slinks over to the rows of public computers and slides in front of one to get their errand over with. The sooner he gets Bucky back home, the sooner he can relax. He puts the other man in a chair next to his and reaches over to touch the man's hand every once in a while to keep him grounded.

Tracing the nanotechnology isn't easy, though. He likes mixing his own oil paints using equal parts walnut oil and linseed oil to get the best combination of film integrity and lack of yellowing with age. That means he has to look up two different brands and determine which was exposed to the nanotechnology. He always prefers M. Graham's walnut oil paints and mixes them with Winsor and Newton's line of artisan mixable colors and linseed oil thinner.

So he looks up both brands and finds out that M Graham makes its paint in small batches and with higher pigment loads. They work out of a factory in Oregon and will be easier to trace given their smaller distribution scales. Winsor and Newton, however, operate a large facility out of London making vast quantities of oil paints. Tracking their distribution will be much more time-consuming.

He reaches over to rest a hand on Bucky's knee upon noting how rapidly it bobs with the man's tension. “I need to know some things about the night you dropped the nanotech.”

Bucky looks offended. “I didn't drop the nanotech.”

Steve rolls his eyes. His companion is oddly specific like this, so he restates his need for information in a manner that doesn't cause the other man's nose to twitch. It's like pulling an angry alligator's teeth.

Bucky complains that he suffered a critical malfunction during the start of the mission and can't remember the particulars about where the assault took place. All he knows for certain is there were concrete floors and vats of paint. Some sort of black out in which Bucky operated on what he calls “autopilot” also means he can't say for sure if it even happened on American soil. 

Steve thinks that his companion could use serious consultation with mental health professionals if he's blacking out into a fugue state. He should probably call his friend, who used to work down at the Washington DC branch of the VA. He painted a commission for Sam Wilson a couple of years ago and still has his number. They like to talk baseball together whenever Sam is free from his Avenging duties as Captain America.

First things first. Bucky nixes going back to Steve's apartment to look at his supplies of paint. The Avengers might have the place staked out in the event Steve returns, and okay, that isn't an irrational worry, but it also means they're taking a stab in the dark between two brand names of oil paints. They figure it's best to start closest to home, the location Steve doesn't need a passport to get to, which means heading to Oregon. No idea how they were getting there, though. 

His companion has spaced out again by the time he prints out addresses, phone numbers, and any other information he feels pertinent. He has to prod Bucky several times to get him functional enough to leave the library, and the trip back to the public parking garage to get the car is wracked with the concern of keeping Bucky from being triggered again.

Tucking his hand into his pocket, he finds his sister's rosary and offers a quick prayer. _Heavenly Father, look with mercy on James Barnes and help him in this time of sickness. Restore him to health I pray through Christ our Lord. Amen._


	7. Benign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier must make a hard decision and comes to a realization.

“You have to eat.”

“Protein bar.”

“That's not enough!”

Bucky's eyes narrow to a razor-sharp focus.

“You're losing weight. If we don't get enough calories into you, you're functionality will deteriorate and make your malfunction worse, so eat the damn fajita and drink the damn milkshake.”

Mutinous silence.

Steve feels mildly guilty for attempting to manipulate the other man, but it's been a week of protein bars and refusals to eat anything with more substance. Everything he offers is rejected. When he tries to press, his companion cites the mantra Steve is beginning to regret teaching him, that he's allowed to want and his wants should be respected. Unfortunately, the man's wants are causing him to loose weight like crazy. That tends to happen when a person's only getting three hundred calories a day and has a metabolism operating on crazy levels. He estimates Barnes has been losing a few pounds a week since they met, and it's beginning to show in Bucky's wan complexion.

Things have been tense like this since the day they went to the library. Steve can't fathom what changed in order to cause Bucky to withdraw, but he's at the end of his rope when it comes to knowing how to help the man. Clearing the food issues up needs to happen before their looming deadline.

They're leaving for Oregon next week after Bucky plans a raid on a Mom and Pop hunting and fishing store to restock his ammo and weapons. The man's been coming in late nightly from staking out the place to gather mission intelligence. Steve's only contribution besides disapproving glances amounts to wrestling a promise that no one would be killed, something his companion refers to as “wet work.”

“Bucky, talk to me. What can I do?”

“Leave me alone.”

[“Stevie, stop. Just leave me alone. I need some time to figure this out myself.” Disappointment. Rejection. Hurt. Slinks back inside through the window off the fire escape. Grabs his sketchpad. Tries to distract himself by sketching the kitchen table while Bucky stews. Ma'll be home soon. They gotta act normal before Ma gets home from the hospital. Never would'a happened if Steve'd kept his damn lips to himself. Pretty blue eyes. Pert lips. A tongue peaking out to moisten them. Steve'd gone crazy and kissed the boy he's been dreaming of kissing since he realized his dick could get hard. Things might never be the same again. “Just leave me alone,” says Bucky the next day. And the next.]

“Fine. When you're ready to talk, you let me know.” He snatches up the milkshake and stuffs it in the freezer so it doesn't melt in case Bucky changes his mind and wants it later.

That night when Bucky goes out to continue casing the arms store, Steve slips out himself. He does something so morally repugnant that he's gonna spend a couple of hours on his knees before sunrise repenting. He goes to a local bar and spends an hour sipping a beer and watching a couple of dames sitting beside him use their phones. The one nearest to him leaves her phone and pocket change on the counter when the pair goes to the bathroom. He's always wondered why women go in flocks.

Heart thundering, he snags phone and change and slips outside in the hustle and bustle of a large group coming into the bar and while people are distracted by an unusually bad singer at the karaoke machine. Steve does a fast-walk through the parking lot and around the corner store before breaking into a run. He runs so hard that he inhales a couple of puffs from his rescue inhaler to keep from suffocating.

Once he's far enough away from the bar to feel safer, he tucks himself into a quiet, dark corner and uses the password he watched the lady input to access her phone earlier. Success doesn't feel so hot in this situation. It makes him feel lower than low, but Bucky hasn't given him any other options.

He calls Sam Wilson. Thankfully, the man answers despite the strange number, so he introduces himself first thing once the call connects.

“Hey, Man, where are you?” Sam sounds groggy but alert.

“I'm at home.”

“Look, buddy, you need to tell me where you are. Me and the rest of the Avengers are looking for you. Why did you take off from the hospital? Did the terrorist find you and make you leave? It's okay if he threatened you into not alerting the nurses. You're not in any trouble.”

“He's not a terrorist.”

“Semantics. Are you safe?”

“Relatively.”

“Is he nearby?”

“No.”

“I want you to look at the nearest street sign and tell me the name. I'm going to find a police precinct or fire house and direct you how to get there. Just stay calm.”

“Sam, I'm not leaving him. He's not my kidnapper anymore. I'm trying to help him turn himself over to the authorities so they can hospitalize him. He's Bucky Barnes. You know, Captain America's sidekick during the war? That Bucky Barnes, and he's been held prisoner for the last seventy years. He's a prisoner of war. He's a vet, and I need your help getting him to come in for treatment.”

Sam is quiet for a few moments while digesting the information. “How do you know?”

“I just do. Could you please trust me on this because I don't have a lot of time.”

“Okay. What's his condition? Is he cooperative or is he in the middle of a crisis?”

“Kinda both. He fades in and out a lot, but right now, he won't eat.”

Steve spends too much time describing the events that led to him stealing a lady's cell phone and hiding out behind a church begging for Sam Wilson's help to keep a-should-have-been-dead-but-isn't war hero alive just because the primordial soup of his DNA screams “Mine!” and “Protect!” It takes longer than he thought to summarize, and he's got tears on his face while describing walking back into their second squat to find Bucky with a pistol in his mouth and for fuck's sake can Sam just please help him; no, he's not getting hysterical; yes, he's much too invested.

He's a little breathless and becoming more anxious by the time he's brought Sam up to speed. Who knows when the lady will call to have her phone reported stolen. It could be turned off at any moment.

“Look, you need to calm down. I can hear how off your breathing is. I'm not a trained psychologist, so take what I have to say as an informed guess, but it's not uncommon for children in chaotic situations to self-comfort by controlling what goes in and out of their bodies. Sometimes it's the only thing they can control. Sounds like Barnes might be suffering from the same thing.

“Think about it,” Sam continues. “He's had people telling him what to do for the past seventy years. Suddenly he's away from those people and forced to operate independently. First thing he's going to do is feel overwhelmed and like he's spiraling out of control, but the one thing he can control is what he puts in his body. They may also have used food as a means of conditioning, so he might feel like he can't eat whatever is given to him outside of certain situations.”

“Okay, that makes a kind of sense, but what I do about it? He's going to starve to death!”

“First thing you're gonna do is calm the Hell down. You screaming at him and making a huge issue out of it will only increase his anxiety levels, and that's going to make him seek control more. It takes a long time for the body to actually expire from lack of nutrition. The body's going to live off fat reserves and then consume muscle tissue before any organs are in jeopardy.”

“That's not very comforting.”

“It should be. Means the guy's not gonna keel over any time soon.”

“So how do I help him?”

“The guy needs actual psychotherapy from a trained professional to start with, but since that's not likely to happen while he's in the middle of a crisis, then it's up to you to make meal times as mundane and stress-free as possible. Offer him the food. Reassure him that it's okay for him to eat it, but don't push when he says no. Next thing you do is help him to create safe spots, places where he feels comfortable enough to let down his guard.

“It's imperative you don't push him to eat or fuss at him while he's in his safe spot. Just let him sit quietly until he's decompressed enough to have a clearer mind-set. Then ask him if he'd like to come have a meal with you. Soothe and then food. You're trying to give him control in other areas of his life so he doesn't need to control his food intake.”

“I think I understand what you're saying. Jamie went through something similar when our parents died. What about getting him to turn himself in?”

“Don't know how successful that's gonna be while there's a manhunt after him. That's gonna take time and patience on your part to help him feel safe with you, but whatever you do, don't lie to him. You've got to be the person he can trust. If you can get him to trust you, you might be able to convince him to turn himself over to the Avengers. That happens, and we'll get a comprehensive plan in place for dealing with his various traumas.”

“I just have one more question. What do you think about him being able to consent to sex? He's tried to get physical with me before, but I couldn't trust that he was doing so in a healthy way.”

“That ain't a dynamic you need to get involved with. Just for your own safety and health, I wouldn't recommend including sex into the mix. No judgment, Man. Adult bodies want weird shit when it comes to sex, but he's going to hurt you one way or another.”

“I figured you'd say that.”

“There ain't some magical guideline that says when someone's able to consent. Sounds like he hasn't been able to express wants in a long damn time, but it's going to be next to impossible to tell if his want is coming from him or as a result of his mental issues. Don't instigate it yourself. Don't make him feel like you expect it. And don't agree to anything while he's in a crisis.”

“I'd better go before an irate blond finds me and her cell phone. Thanks, Sam. Do you think you would be willing to work with him when he comes in?”

“Yeah, Man. Of course I'd be willing to talk to him and at least put him in the right direction of appropriate psychotherapists. Listen. You take care of yourself, okay? Wipe that phone down when you're done and leave it on the ground so it's not coated with your fingerprints and saliva.”

“Will do, buddy, and thanks. You've been a huge help.”

Steve does as suggested once he ends the call, leaving the phone on the church steps before booking it back toward Shady Waters. He slips inside, takes a shower, and is doodling on a piece of scrap paper by the time Bucky comes back in through the kitchen window, 'cause he can't be normal and use the back door. He greets the other man with a smile.

“Everything go okay?”

Bucky shrugs.

He prays for patience instead of lighting into the other man for reverting to non-verbal communication. Instead, he pushes away from the breakfast bar. “I'm gonna make some toast and jam. You want any?”

His companion shakes his head.

Another prayer for patience filters through the ceiling toward the Heavens. Calm. Sam said he can't push, so he acknowledges Bucky with a shrug and crams bread into the toaster. He can feel Bucky's eyes following his movements, and when he dares a glance, the other man looks like he's expecting Hellfire and Brimstone for refusing to eat. Steve's sudden refusal to fuss seems to put him on edge, but after a few quiet moments, the man's shoulders release some of their tension. The next morning, he finds the milkshake gone from inside the freezer and grins.

***

“America, you should get up.”

The other girl's words are muffled underneath her pillow.

“Seriously, you're starting to stink up the place. I think flies have come to roost somewhere in the vicinity of your hair.” Then, quieter, she continues, “You've been in bed for three days.”

“Don't feel good.”

“Then you should go to the infirmary.”

“Will you just leave me the fuck alone, Kiddo?” the other girl finally snaps.

“Language.”

Another quiet huff.

But Jamie's worried. America hasn't always been the bubbly type. In fact, she doesn't really remember over the past countless weeks when her companion was anything but surly, but this stretch of bedridden misery is longer than most of the girl's moods. Jamie doesn't know what to do except to consider that her friend might be suffering from depression, leastwise that's what the computer said when she plugged in the list of America's symptoms. There isn't a lot of solid answers when it comes to answering the search criteria “helping someone with depression.”

All she really knows is that she feels bad that America feels bad. A helpless sensation's creeping higher in her emotional awareness, so she does the only thing she can think to do.

Knocking at Sam's door in the tower makes her feel stupid. She has a problem she can't figure out how to solve on her own, so she goes crying to Sam Wilson, who is just about the only approachable member of the Avengers. She tried approaching Black Widow once. That woman's thousand-yard-stare could terrify an angry bull. Hawkeye isn't much better. He's so hard to spot she rarely sees him.

Sam answers the door in electric yellow running tights and a light jacket, tights that comply with their namesake. Jamie's fifteen-year-old hormones can't figure out whether she wants paper or plastic at the grocery store. Forget focusing enough to pull her eye away from the thickly muscled thighs and calves. They sort of make her want to climb him like a tree. He will be the eucalyptus tree. She will be the koala. It takes him clearing his throat to pull her mind out of the gutter.

“H-h-hi,” she stammers. “I w-w-wanted-- Do you got some water or something? Because that body is smoking, and we might wanna put it out before it catches the building on fire. Oh God.” She can't figure out whether to cross herself for taking the Lord's name or sink through the floor.

The only thing that saves her from dying of mortification is that Sam doesn't chuckle. He says, “Come in and have a seat. Let me go put something more appropriate on.”

She almost tells him he doesn't have to, because covering up those legs would be a crying shame. Thankfully, her tongue decides to cooperate this time. She flounces inside and hops onto his sofa where she fists both hands over her lap. These are the times she's incredibly grateful that she isn't a boy. If she were a boy, she would have split the seam of her pants with a rock hard erection.

He comes back wearing khakis and a polo shirt. More's the pity. “Can I get you something to drink? I've got Pepsi products.”

“Soda gives you cancer, you know. And asparatame is awful for you.”

“How does a girl your age care about that?”

“Cause my brother tries to die on me every winter, and asparatame gives him the squirts.”

Sam's response is the perfect “oh” face. “So no pop. I've also got water and juice, or I could make you some tea. Pick your poison.”

“No coffee?”

“You're fifteen.”

“My brother works at a coffee shop!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, making his pectorals bulge.

She swallows hard. “Juice.” And lose the shirt, she finishes to herself.

After the pleasantries are over and they're both sitting on the sofa, Jamie looks up from a cup of lychee juice. “I'm worried about America. She hasn't gotten out of bed for three days except to get snacks and go to the bathroom, and I don't know what to do for her.”

“Does she still take her medication that you know of?”

“I've never seen her take it, but we're not together twenty-four seven.”

“Thank you for letting me know. You did the right thing by telling me. America's had a rough time of it lately, none of which I'm going to tell you about. I'm not her therapist, but I still wouldn't tell you.”

“You're a therapist?”

“I was. Still volunteer down at the VA sometimes. That's where I met your brother.”

“Wait, you know Steve!”

“Have for a couple of years now. He's a good guy. He did a commission for me, and we've kept in touch. In fact, he called me last night.”

She sat up straighter against the sofa and couldn't help the eager look she fed him.

“He's all right. He called me for some advice about dealing with Barnes' issues. None of which I'm going to share with you, so don't bother asking. I think I was able to give him some good advice. Just thought you should know that he's made contact and is still in one piece. I can't imagine how hard this has been for you, and I want you to know that if you need anything, I'm here.”

“There's really nothing you can do for me. I miss him like crazy, but I also understand why he needs to do what he's doing. Steve's always been that way. Doesn't know how to give up on someone even if it costs him his health. Just keep me informed, will you?”

“Of course. How's your project with Tony coming?”

She shrugs. “It's fine.”

The conversation winds down at that point, as her mind is already racing along to the next issue on today's “To Do” list. Getting America some help is at the top, but now that she's alerted Sam that there's a problem, she heads off to Tony's lab for her daily tutoring session on coding. Mostly, he ignores her until she asks a question or gets stuck on something, at which point, he'll give her a few minutes of his attention to show her the way around her problem. Today is no different.

A little huff escapes, frustration tightening her core like a wound spring. “I can't do this. This framework is too limiting for what I want to do.”

“That's a Stark laptop, Kid. You can't tell me there isn't enough room for a high school project.”

“I think it would help if I saw the original mainframe, you know. What you've done with JARVIS is so complex that I can't really picture what it's going to look like. How did you utilize the space in your partition for the maximum efficiency.”

Tony's standing behind her now and looking at the core of code she's building that contain the base functions of human intelligence. She's trying to design it in the structure of a brain, partitioning off the hippocampus and limbic systems, building up the hind brain that would normally contain basic motor functions in order to utilize the brain's structure to best effect.

Her temporary mentor squeezes her shoulder, which is the only physical touch they've ever exchanged and takes her into the core of the building, to a room protected by the rest of the structure that contains countless banks of servers. They were standing inside JARVIS, and her eyes became suitably round with the occasion. At a terminal, he pulls up a holographic representation of the AI, tidy spheres of coding that reminds her of the Death Star, only golden light and color. Those colored pathways are the holographic presentation of the AI's neural pathways.

“So you're not far off, Kid.”

“Can I sit in here a while and sketch this?”

“Sure. Jay, make sure you lock up when she leaves.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

And that's how Jamie Buchanan Roberts begins the process of figuring out how to out-maneuver JARVIS when it comes time to stop the programming on America's restrictions. When she's ready, she'll know how to hide the sudden absence of the computer feeds from the AI to cover their tracks, at least for a while, hopefully long enough to get America away from Stark Tower.

***

Nothing can bring equilibrium to his world like a successful operation. The Asset—Bucky—is loaded down with a duffel bag full of arms and ammunition from the gun store when he hops the back fence into the yard of the model home they've been squatting in. He stops cold. Respiration increases. Heart rate raises beyond optimum levels. Pain. Distress. Panic.

An unknown number of black-clothed figures mill around inside the house. Through the rear French doors, he sees Stevie on his knees with hands behind his head in front of a unit commander. No call signs mark their uniforms, but he recognizes the SR-3M rifles fitted with suppressors and the stocks folded outward clutched in the hands of those keeping watch for his approach. Russian military. Russian military means KGB. Means handlers. Means home. Means the Chair. Means no longer malfunctioning. Want want want!

Bucky—The Asset—takes a step away from the shadows with every intention of complying and going home. He wants so badly to go home where everything makes sense and no one forces him to make his own decisions and decide his own wants. He stills again.

The commander, red-faced and irate, backhands Steve hard enough the man's head whips painfully to the side. Steve spits a mouthful of blood and remains still as a stone. Another irate sound muffled by the distance and obstacles between them, but he can read lips well enough to know the commander has demanded to know where the asset codenamed Winter Soldier is.

Steve refuses to answer by the looks of things, earning him another slap.

They'll kill him. The only thing he knows for certain is that his handlers will kill Steve for not giving up his location and for being part of the malfunction in his head. _That ain't the only reason they'll kill him, pal. They find out he's got Steve Rogers' DNA, and he's gonna be their newest lab rat._ Microsoft 1.0 isn't wrong. But choosing between his mission assist and home?

Home.

_Stevie._

Home, goddamnit!

_Stevie._

Home is better.

_You don't get your sorry ass in there and save our reincarnated husband, I will make both our lives a living Hell inside this meat suit. Get the fuck in there and stop them from hurting him, or so help me..._

The Asset uses efficient movements to put together a sniper rifle and scope from inside his bag of goodies. He plants his feet, stills, takes a quiet breath, and POP POP POP POP. The commander goes down first. Three more shots take down the men nearest Steve. He forgoes reloading time in favor of sprinting toward the French doors with a sidearm drawn. His body careens through the glass. He ducks into a roll, and comes up on his feet on the other side to open fire.

“Get behind the island and keep your head down,” he commands in his smoke and gravel voice.

Steve scrambles to obey but is intercepted on the way there by a KGB agent. The smaller man yelps, scrambles the last few feet toward a block full of knives, and yanks one free just as his attacker gets a gloved hand into thick, wheaten hair.

The Asset lodges the metal arm beneath a down-thrusting knife to prevent it from lacerating his own face. By the time he's thrown the attacker off and bludgeoned the asshole with a dining room chair, he finds Steve splashed with blood with the blade of a butcher knife lodged in the face of his attacker.

“Nice one,” the Asset compliments.

Steve doesn't look as though he appreciates it.

“Longing. Rusted. Furnace.”

A shiver of electricity rushes up the Asset's spine and spreads shocking fingers through his nervous system at the sound of those cold, Russian words. Not the words. The words will prevent him from saving Steve. He whips around to find the speaker, but the man is across the room from him.

“Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign.”

“Stop!” He shouts until his voice is raw as his brain struggles with his body to comply. He must comply. Compliance is the means to glory. Compliance is his only salvation. But Steve will die.

“Nine. Homecoming. One.”

Comply. Comply. Comply. Comply.

“Freight--”

Silence.

The stillness of his brain rattles with an empty sound inside his head. Comp-- 

Slowly, he pulls his face away from his forearms, feeling like a rabbit, keenly aware of the vicious snarl of pursuing dogs, streaking desperately toward its burrow. Hiding is the only means of safety.

Steve, feet planted, clutches the base of a knife now embedded in to the throat of the man speaking the words. Delicate artist hands tremble. The spine Bucky knows contains a subtle S curve is ram-rod straight with awareness. The man's breathing rasps in overworked lungs.

Bucky swallows heavily and approaches with caution. “Stevie.”

“We need to get out of here before the cops come,” the man says through the thickness of his breath.

“Stevie, you saved me.” He finally gets close enough to settle a hand on the man's shoulder.

Steve jerks sideways, finally turns to face him. His eye is already beginning to swell closed. “We should get out of here. Someone will have heard that gunfire.”

Wincing, Bucky cups both delicate cheeks in his hands and wipes a smear of blood away from Steve's nose. “Nose is broken. Gonna straighten this for you so you can breathe later. You saved me.”

The other man finally lifts his glance to meet Bucky's. “I'm always gonna save you, pal.”

An overwhelming sense of something destroys his better sense, and Bucky leans forward to slot their mouths together, Steve's slick and red with blood, his own dry and chapped, but it's the best thing he can remember since being born, the intimacy, the closeness, the general rightness of having Steve Roberts nearby. He wants.

Steve kisses back, shy and close-mouthed.

Fragile bones crunch as Bucky snaps the bend back into position, causing Steve to yowl.

“Why didn't you warn me?” he shouts.

“Warning would have made the anticipated pain worse.”

“God, I hate you sometimes, you jerk.”

An unexpected smile arrives. “No you don't, punk.”

The distant sound of sirens drags them both from the comfort of each other. They exchange a glance before both are on the move to gather what gear they can lay their hands on with any degree of speed. Their stolen ride peels from the garage moments later.

The Asset—Bucky, he reminds himself—gets on Interstate Eighty heading west and listens to the soft whistle of Steve's breathing deepen into sleep. He can't remember the last time someone fought for him, not out of anything but a sense of ownership. It was different than the KGB fighting to reclaim their asset. Steve fought for him because he was a person who deserved to make his own choices.

The thought settles uncomfortably. Being a person means he must take responsibility for his own actions. It means operating without orders, making decisions without guidance, and not having a mission plan to follow. He doesn't know what will happen when his current mission ends. What will he do? Where will he go? How will he know how to live without masters giving him an itinerary?

And Steve. Steve won't give him an itinerary. Steve wants him to be a person and make his own. He doesn't know how to tell the other man that he doesn't know how, gets the sense his f-f-friend—that word skips across his mind like a stone across water—will be disappointed if he admits to not knowing, if he admits to the flashes of memory that scare him awake when he dreams.

His memories are filled with blood, filled with people begging for their lives when he wasn't allowed the quality of mercy. A hand begins to tremble on the steering wheel. He relaxes his grip to ease the tension, shifts his flesh hand to take the wheel. His metal one settles unerringly on Steve's knee. Touching the other man stills the thoughts of blood and coldness.

Would Steve want him if he knew?

Thinking it triggers something akin to fear. If Steve knew what he's done, he's not sure the man would care so deeply anymore. [“I saw you!” Steve shouts, red-faced and wheezing. “Stevie, Christ, calm down. Your asthma.” “To Hell with my asthma! I saw you in that alley!” Another shuddering breath. Tears. Desperate tears sheeting down that beloved face. “You said you loved me. You said there wasn't anybody else. How could you?” “It wasn't like that!” Desperation. Pain. He's hurt Stevie so bad and doesn't know if he can take it back. “It's bad enough you've gotta make time with those dames to keep everybody from getting suspicious. I can forgive that. But when I saw that man getting inside you-- I can't do that, Buck! 'M not gonna be your part time fella.”]

Bucky nearly drives them off the interstate and is afraid he's cracked the steering wheel. The Asset glares at Microsoft 1.0, because how could he step out on Steve Rogers? _You keep your stupid nose to your stupid self, pal._ (No. Didn't figure you for a dirty cheater.) _It wasn't like that!_ (Oh yeah? What was it like?) Silence. (I'll tell ya what it was like. It was like replacing the Sistine Chapel with fucking abstract art. Black dot on a white canvas equals “Oh what a world, what a world! Who would have thought a good girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness.”) Crickets chirping. (You still with me, not-pal? Wait, did I get you to shut up for a change? Asset: 1. Microsoft 1.0: 0.) _Eat me._ (You'd give me rabies.) _Christ, I hate you sometimes._ (Feeling's mutual, not-pal. Feeling's very fucking mutual.)

Time slides out of focus during his argument with himself and for who knows how long after. Traffic is light. The darkness allows headlights to illuminate lane reflectors on the road that transfix him into a state of emptiness. Settling into the feeling is a comfort. He doesn't have to feel. Doesn't have to argue with himself. Doesn't have to worry.

When he becomes aware, he realizes they're nearing Youngstown, Ohio and feels a moment of panic upon not remembering how they got there. His muscle memory must have made the appropriate adjustments on the steering wheel, but he can't remember passing certain city markers, and that frightens him. He shouldn't slip so easily out of complete awareness. He sits up straighter.

They breeze through Youngstown and take a connection onto I-76 in order to take the southern route toward Oregon. It will take a little longer to get there but will allow them to bypass the toll roads through Illinois and Indiana. He doesn't need either of their faces turning up on national media from passing through a toll. They go right through Columbus and southwest toward Indianapolis.

Eventually, he becomes aware of Steve's breathing changing from deep whistles to something more labored as the man wakes. They have a brief exchange where his companion mutters in a sleepy voice wanting to know where they are, and he glances out of his peripheral vision to watch the man smooth the soft flutter of his bangs. It makes something in Bucky's stomach roll over in an entirely pleasant way, causes the malfunction in his genitals to get worse, and it's only the tight clamp of his metal fingers digging painfully into his own thigh that makes it stop.

He pulls into the next rest area, which is only lightly populated at such an early hour of the morning, to take a piss and clean Steve up in the bathroom. The man's eye has swollen shut, and he has dark bruises under both eyes from his nose being broken. Bucky wets a napkin to dab gingerly at the blood crusted on his companion's nostrils. There isn't so much as a wince in response, and he wants to lean forward and brush their mouths together again, to taste the soft sweetness of the other man's lips in perfect contrast to his hardness.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky breathes.

“For what?”

“Sorry I got you involved in this. You weren't made for this kind of life.”

What was meant to be a reassurance, a statement of caring, winds up being received as something less earnest. Steve's shoulders tense, and the naked affection in his glance freezes into something frigid. “Not made for this kind of life? Pal, I got news for you; I can do this all day. Just you watch.”

“I didn't mean--”

His companion turns to wash his face in the sink. “I know what you meant. Skinny, fragile Steve Roberts wasn't built for getting slapped around. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, why did I think you were different? Fragile Steve Roberts needs to be protected. He's only good for delicate tasks. Fuck, you think I haven't heard it before?”

“Would you stop and let me--”

“Don't. Fucking. Bother, Barnes. I killed two men last night. You got any idea what that feels like? I'm gonna have to live with that in my guts. I'm gonna say the rosary and light candles for those men because I panicked and killed them instead of disabling them. But no, I'm not built for this life.”

“Stop and let me talk!”

Steve isn't interested in what he's got to say. Sweet, caring Steve slams out of the bathroom like a bull what's caught a flash of red, leaving Bucky dumbfounded in his wake.

Bucky opens his mouth once or twice with the intention of saying something to the subway tiles, but nothing comes out. He can't figure out how that went so spectacularly wrong so quickly and takes a few minutes longer than necessary to piss and wash up as best he can before following at a much slower pace, catching sight of his irate companion in an overhang filled with vending machines. 

One thing is for certain: he can never tell Steve about the things he's done. If Steve's worried about having killed two men in self defense, then he's never going to understand the things Bucky was made to do-- He stops mid-thought. He was made to do those things. He was _made_ to do those things. His handlers hadn't given him any options for turning down missions. It wasn't just that he hadn't known right from wrong. Right and wrong simply hadn't existed.

Bucky was a victim.

It loosens something tight in his chest and allows a sense of acceptance to wash over him. He was a victim of the KGB as surely as the people he was forced to kill. Victims don't carry the responsibility of actions committed under duress. A soft sound escapes as he flops down behind the wheel to wait for Steve. He doesn't have to spend his life trying to make up for what he did. His only responsibility is to live to honor their memories.

They drive another couple of hundred miles into Columbia, Missouri, at which point, Bucky feels himself losing time again. It's about five in the afternoon when he slides back into awareness, and he figures he only has a couple of more hours in him before the time slippage returns and makes driving too dangerous. Steve can't drive with his swollen eye, so their best option is to find a cheap motel at the half-way point between St. Louis and Kansas City.

He chooses a Red Roof Inn and makes Steve wait in the car until he's booked them a room. All that bruising would make him too memorable. They leave most of their gear in the car. He does bring the guns inside to catalog and clean then takes a shower to wake himself up so he's aware enough to work on mission planning while Steve rests.

Steve still isn't speaking to him.

A little while later, he goes out to get food at a Korean BBQ joint out past the Anthropology and Archaeology museum thinking it might cheer Steve up. Bucky even eats his own order of galbi just to make the other man happy, and maybe that has something to do with the long-suffering sigh that escapes from Willowy, Beautiful, and Blond, or maybe that mouth of his finally aches too much from its forced silence. He's leaning toward the latter.

“Look, I don't like being treated like I'm fragile.”

“Wrong descriptor.”

“Yeah? How would you describe it then?”

Bucky chews another bite of braised short rib thoughtfully. The food settles comfortably in his stomach for a change. “Bull in a China shop.” He indicates himself. “Thin as a razor.” A gesture indicates Steve. “Both are useful in different scenarios.”

“You said I wasn't built for this life.”

“You're not.”

Steve's shoulders hunch toward his ears again.

Bucky holds his ground. “Killed two men in self-defense and you want to punish yourself with penitence. Shouldn't have to doesn't mean can't. Anybody can aim a gun and pull a trigger. You were made for better things.”

The other man jerks back a little and regards Bucky with intensity.

He sighs, exasperated with his inability to say things right. “You stood between my guns and innocent people at that art gallery. I'm a weapon. You're a shield. They are built for different functions. You aren't meant to do the things I do. That's a good thing.”

Tension finally bleeds from the other man's shoulders, but his expression goes pensive and shy as he toys with the bulgogi in his carton. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I wanted to.”

“Were you kissing Steve Roberts or Steve Rogers?”

_Boy, isn't that the question of the hour, pal?_ Bucky considers it and isn't sure how to answer when he's not certain of the answer himself. It's impossible to separate the two in amongst the jumbled fragments of his memories. Finally, he decides on honesty. “I don't know. You are the same in my mind.”

Steve smiles sadly. “I was afraid of that.” Then, quieter, he says, “Please don't kiss me again until you know the answer to that question. I'm not him.”

And Bucky wants to reassure him, wants to say that Steve Roberts is Steve Rogers in all the ways that count, but he doesn't think that will make the other man feel any better. Doesn't think the man in front of him will appreciate being overwritten by a man long-murdered whose identity Roberts' mother forced onto him by choosing the name she chose.

Instead, he just nods to accept the request.


	8. The winter Soldier Vs. Yawning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission to retrieve nanotechnology reaches a dangerous new level.

Pain. Cold hands strip him from his tactical gear. Naked. Vulnerable. They thrust him into a wet room full of white tile and chrome. Cold spray blasts his body. Water turns pink as it gushes into the drain. He tries to fold his arms over his groin. Tries to spare at least that sensitive part of him from the bite of the water and the pressure of the hose. Inhuman. It makes him feel inhuman. I can bathe myself, he wants to shout from rough vocal cords.

A man sits on a stool across from him. The Asset's still naked. Bright lights overhead. Surrounded in a pool of harsh white. Nowhere to hide. Nothing to slink back into to escape the spotlight.

“Mission report.”

Russian. He wants to scream at them that he doesn't speak Russian, that he's not Russian.

“Mission report, comrade.”

“Raided the house as ordered, Sir. No evidence of the flash drives. Target died in the process of interrogation. Evidence suggests previous and undocumented heart condition.”

“You let her die without finding the flash drives? Need I remind you that the information contained on those drives is KGB property? You allowed a traitor with valuable intelligence to die before giving up her secrets? Is that correct?”

“Unforeseen obstacles to mission completion. Mission went _pear-shaped_ , Sir.” He doesn't realize he's lapsed into English when the Russian language trips over 'pear-shaped.'

His handler back-hands him. “That is for speaking that language in my presence. This is for failing your mission. Mission failure is unacceptable.”

A hot, electric prod makes contact with his genitals. The Asset screams. His whole body arches with tension, causing him to clutch the armrests of his chair. Only his hands, head, and feet touch anything solid when the charge races from his genitals into the rest of his body.

_I'm not Russian_ , he wants to scream, _I'm an American._ The magazine at Comrade Sonja Kuznetsov's home said so. It was an in-depth look at Captain America and the Howling Commandos on the hundred year anniversary of Captain America's birth. Standing beside and to the right of the captain was a man, a man wearing the Asset's face, a man named James Buchanan Barnes.

“I'm not Russian,” he finally screams in English. “I'm James Barnes. I'm Bucky.”

Another touch of the electrical prod. “What is your name?”

“James.”

Electricity fried up his spine again toward his brain. “What is your name?”

“Bucky!”

Pain. “What is your name?”

“Asset!”

“Say it again.”

“Barnes, James Buchanan; Sergeant. 32557038.”

The electrical prod descends again. The Asset's metal arm snaps the armrest and raises to grasp the wrist utilizing the weapon. A quick wrench turns his torturer's arm hard enough bone snaps. 

“I am James Barnes.”

Time slips. The malfunction worsens. Blackness engulfs his mind as he moves from awareness into muscle memory. There is heat. There is fire. There is the metallic tang of blood in his nostrils. He is not their asset, and he does not consent to being their weapon.

Bucky snaps awake, body sticky with sweat and sheets clinging to the dampness. Breathing is increased. Heart rate is through the roof. He shoves the linens off his body and stumbles into the bathroom to step into a cool shower to wake himself up and rinse the sweat from his body. Nothing can tell him if it was a dream or a memory resurfacing.

“Bucky?”

The plates of his metal arm whir and settle in preparation for self-defense, an instinct that settles before anything can come of it when he looks up to see Steve standing in the doorway looking ragged and sleep-tousled. He wants. Despite the bruises and the swollen eye and the shiners from the man's broken nose, he wants. Steve looks soft and sweet. That's not an expression Steve Rogers would have ever worn. _Damn straight, pal. That little cuss didn't have a soft bone in his body._

“S'okay, Stevie. Go back to sleep.”

“Do you need anything?”

Nothing you're willing to give me, pal. “No. Just had a bad dream. I'll be out in a minute.”

“That's good. 'Cause I'm kinda cold without you.” A soft smile accompanied the comment before Steve glides away to return to the king sized bed they are sharing.

[“Would you get off me, Buck?” “Wha'? It's cold. Don'tcha wanna snuggle and get warm?” A sharp elbow jabs him in the ribs to demand more breathing room. “I'm not your girl. I don't need you to keep me warm.” Wakefulness comes like a sledgehammer. “But it's colder than a witch's tit out there. Come on. You're shivering.” “Stop trying to take care of me all the time, Buck! Christ, I'm not some invalid who can't maintain his own body heat.” “Well excuse the fuck outta me for caring that my best guy's freezing his balls off.” “I'm not your best guy neither.” “Well, you was!” “That was before I caught you stepping out on me with Franco Abandonato. Bad enough you been running with Clery's boys. Now you gotta fuck the Italian Mafia? Clery catches you, and I'm gonna find you face-down in the river.” A heavy sigh. It's a cold night, and Steve Rogers is a cold, cold bedfellow.]

(Don't say a word.) _Word._ (Fuck, I can't stand you.) _Word._

Bucky feels marginally better by the time he leaves the bathroom and gets back under the covers to stretch out beside Steve, metal forearm tucked under his head. He stares at the ceiling for a while trying to sort out the snippets of memories he's been having and puzzling through how to separate Steve Roberts from Steve Rogers. Doesn't seem all that important to him, but it's something his companion clearly cares about.

The problem's not all that simple, but he lays it out like this:

1.) Steve Rogers had a hot temper. Steve Roberts has a hot temper.

2.) Steve Rogers knew how to hold a grudge like nobody's business. Steve Roberts forgives easily when he cares about you.

3.) Steve Rogers woulda dragged his sorry ass over hot coals before admitting he wasn't feeling well. Steve Roberts hates being sick but doesn't mind saying he needs to rest or needs his medication.

4.) Steve Rogers was a bossy little shit. Steve Roberts is a bossy little shit but can be reasonable.

5.) Steve Rogers hated coddling. Steve Roberts asks him to come back to bed when it's cold.

6.) Steve Rogers always had to stand up for the little guy. Steve Roberts is the same.

7.) Steve Rogers was a scrappy, self-righteous Catholic who didn't know how to compromise or give a single inch when he believed in something. Steve Roberts has strong beliefs but knows how to not hold people to the same exacting standards.

In summary: Steve Rogers was someone to aspire to, and Bucky continues to love and miss him intensely, but they were like fire and water. Steve Roberts is like Steve Rogers but mellowed with age and from growing up in a kinder environment where he hasn't been forced to hide from the world. The differences are there, but they are subtle.

He eventually falls back to sleep only to wake to a pinging sound in his arm's on-board computer. Grogginess and the thick gum of sleep in his eyes means he drags himself out from under unconsciousness to sit up on the edge of the bed. The sound of the shower running eases any tension from waking to an empty bed. They need more clothes.

A yawn pops his jaw. He's prepared to ignore that until it suddenly hits him that he hasn't yawned in more than seventy years. The Asset didn't need to yawn. He was maintained with appropriate levels of sleep and wakefulness, given barbiturates to make him sleep and amphetamines when he was required to be alert. Heavily sedated before going into stasis and pumped full of uppers upon being thawed.

His first yawn. The realization brings a bright smile that lightens the heavy intensity of his resting bitch face. It makes him feel a touch more human that his body reacts in human ways, so he jumps to his feet and barges into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. He mimics the motion and winds up making himself legitimately yawn again.

“Hey, privacy. I'm in the shower here, Buck.”

“I yawned, Stevie!” He can't mask the excitement in his voice.

“Wait.” A beat of silence passes. “What?”

Bucky sweeps open the shower curtain and ignores the indignant shriek of the man inside. “I yawned. People yawn, Stevie. People yawn!”

Steve, who is wrapped around himself with a thigh lifted to hide his genitals uncoils and throws his wet body at Bucky's dry one in a fierce hug that's tighter than someone so small should be able to produce. “That's great, Buck. I'm so glad that makes you happy.”

“I'm a person. Ain't that the darnedest thing?” He pulls back enough to look down into his companion's beautiful face, expression softening. “I'm someone.”

“Course you're someone. You're someone special, pal.”

They both realize Steve is half-hanging out of the shower and completely nude at the same time and have similar reactions. Bucky jumps and pushes the other man back into his normal posture and snatches his hands back with all haste. He can't help it when his glance drops down. Steve, noticing the path his eyes take, squeaks and jerks the shower curtain against his body.

“I'm up here, pal.”

He jerks his glance back to the man's face, his own cheeks heating. “Sorry. I'll-- I should go see about breakfast and give you some privacy.”

“Just be careful if you're going to go out to get something.”

Red still tinges his cheeks by the time he dresses and drags on a dark jacket and baseball cap. Another ping emanates from his arm, so he finally opens the interface to check which sensor is going off. The computer has been calibrated to pick up signatures from the nano processors he's chasing, and the arm has located a strong signature to the southwest. Probably within a couple of miles distance of their present location. Real life is full of more coincidences than most people assume. He doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth and goes to check out the signature.

***

They're walking to Columbia University's Museum of Art and Archaeology when Steve's careful facade cracks and causes him to look sideways at the man beside him. Bucky and his thrift store finds make Steve's pants uncomfortably tight. His companion is dressed in generic jeans, but he's paired it with a zip-up polyester top in sapphire blue. Red stripes run perpendicular to and on either side of the zipper. Finally, a blue suit jacket damn near the same color as his jeans complete the ensemble. It should have looked corky, especially with the white sunglasses. The man's wearing the kind of jacket you'd go for a run in as a shirt, but with his hair styled and parted to the side, he just looks mouth-watering.

Steve wants to stick his tongue in the dent in Bucky's chin.

He realizes then just how young Bucky looks when he's not geared up for combat. His companion could be a student at the very university they're visiting, and it makes Steve's heart thump harder thinking about someone that young shipping off to a world war, dying, and then spending decades in captivity. Steve suddenly wants to annihilate things and protect this man from any future harm.

In short, he's in trouble. He's in a lot of trouble.

“What?” Bucky asks when Steve's gaze has lingered longer than polite.

The temptation's too great, so Steve reaches over to lace their fingers together and give Bucky's hand a squeeze. “Just thinking about how strong and resilient you are.”

“Not what you said yesterday.”

“In my defense, yesterday was a pretty rotten day. Seriously. You look like you're in a good place.”

“Gonna be in a better place once we get through those doors.”

Steve lets the matter drop and hurries forward to open the visitor entrance for a group of girls laden with books and backpacks. They thank him for his kindness but promptly forget Steve Roberts upon catching sight of Bucky, whose appearance sends them into fits of flirtatiousness. He doesn't care enough to be annoyed by becoming a nonentity in the face of his better-looking companion, but Bucky's charming smile stirs some green-hued monster in his guts. Mbali had often complained vociferously of Steve's tendency toward jealousy.

Said girls clearly have nothing better to occupy themselves with but oohing and awwing over Bucky's ensemble and complimenting the way the red makes him stand out like a beacon in the night sky, and Bucky... Well, Bucky is a smooth operator, has them eating out of his palm in a matter of moments, much to the green-hued monster's irritation. They want to exchange numbers and go for a drink sometime, making it perfectly clear they're game for double-teaming Barnes.

Jealousy about-faces into something more insidious watching Barnes chat them up. If the other man wants to stay in town for a few days, take them up on their offer, well, that's just be natural, right? Two hot girls in the prime of their lives? No way a skinny little starving artist can compare to that. They have color in their cheeks. Steve's only color comes from fading bruises all over his face. They're vivacious. Steve's run ragged from trying to work, paint, and take care of his sister.

So it comes with much surprise when Bucky sidles closer to settle a warm palm on the small of Steve's back and urge him up on tip-toe for a quick kiss, just a soft brush of lips that makes Steve's heart stutter. When he dares look up, the other man is looking down on him with dark lashes framing those gorgeous blue-gray eyes and a besotted expression—Steve wants so badly to put his tongue in this man's mouth—before Bucky returns a fraction of his attention to the ladies.

Crestfallen, the women apologize before disappearing into an employee only area.

Steve can't do anything but blush and stutter until Bucky bites his own bottom lip and tilts one corner of his mouth up in a positively impish, bedroom look that makes Steve's knees go weak. It's not fair. It's not freaking fair! How will he ever maintain the high ground with Bucky Barnes looking at him like he's an ice cream cone the man wants desperately to lick?

“Christ, why do you have to make this so difficult?” He whispers the question before forcing tension back into his body to separate them.

The expression on Bucky's face once some distance has been enacted makes Steve want to take it all back. The man's hurt bleeds quickly into tension then morphs into an empty look that says Bucky Barnes has checked out and given control over to the Asset. Steve thinks about kicking himself. Hard. Doesn't Bucky know how unhealthy it would be if they hooked up?

Before he can apologize, Bucky leaves him standing by the doorway and takes off toward a student exhibit on display in the museum. He is much slower to follow, lost in his own head space. It's not that he doesn't want Bucky; he wants that man so bad he can practically taste it. It's just that it wouldn't be good for either of them, Steve being compared to the man's long-dead husband and Bucky having a diminished capacity to know his own needs.

[“Is it me?” Steve asks in a small voice. Uncertainty. Hurt. Bucky's going to leave him if he doesn't get his act together and stop acting like such a pill. “Christ, 'course it's not you. Stevie, Frankie wasn't nothing. It didn't mean nothing.” A watery blue glance lifts to look at his lover. “Tell me why. Tell me what I did to make you want someone else.” A quiet huff of sound. Bucky pushes him against a wall. Familiar lips on his. A tongue slipping inside to find his own. Strong hands on the backs of his thighs, lifting him, supporting him, pinning him against a wall. His lover's hard dick between their bellies. “Fuck, Rogers. You needed that medication so bad. Couldn't stand seeing you like that. Frankie was just a butter and egg man, gave me a five spot just to fuck me.”]

A soft gasp escapes when he comes out of the past. He presses a hand against his stomach and follows Bucky's progress through the exhibit with his glance. Bucky prostituted himself for Rogers. He doesn't know what to make of that, so he strolls through the exhibit, stopping now and then to look at a particular painting and admire the brush strokes. He's just looking at a well-done Impasto when Bucky returns from his circuit of the exhibit.

“Found two paintings with the signature.”

Steve studies their surroundings, noting two security guards and several students milling around the area. “Okay. I'll make a diversion. You grab the art, and we'll meet back at the hotel. If we're made, we're going to have to punch our way--”

Bucky's laughter interrupts. “Actually, I was just thinking of contacting the artists and buying them.”

A brow works toward a wheaten hairline.

“We punch our way out of here, and it'll wind up on the nightly news. With the Avengers tailing us, we don't need to be seen on television. Besides, how much can student artwork go for?”

“Oh.” Shows how much Steve knows about the sort of lifestyle Barnes lives. He just assumed violence would be involved in their heist. It hadn't entered his mind that they would do this legally.

Turns out violence is involved, but not in the way Steve expected. They call the numbers on the artwork and set a time to meet the artists to discuss the sale, which goes down smoothly and at a reasonable price, but by the time they return to the museum, five or six suits are milling around inside. Their presence makes Barnes go cold. Steve can't guess what's set the man off, but each of the newcomers wears a little gold pin on their jacket collar. Looks like a skull atop six tentacles. Seeing them sends his companion into immediate Asset mode.

It's the only warning he gets before the hitting and shooting starts. Steve's contributions to the whole thing amount to getting the civilians to safety. Everyone in the immediate vicinity has already taken cover, so he makes his way toward them, ducking behind various display cases whenever the violence gets too close for comfort. A bullet shatters the glass of a case behind which he's hiding, and he curls into the fetal position to cover his head with hands and forearms as glass rains down.

What remains of the glass and the contents inside the case meets a terrible end. A body wrecks it as it's thrown through by the Winter Soldier. The man sputters, writhing in pain until his senses clear enough to go back on the offensive, moving to hurl himself toward the Soldier's back, who's presently occupied with fighting three men between him and the paintings.

A split second decision has Steve grabbing the man's ankle before he can throw himself at Bucky's exposed back. He yanks hard. The combatant goes down in the mess of shattered glass but flops onto his back and kicks viciously toward Steve's face. A duck clears Steve of having his head pummeled in again, but a second kick catches him in the hand and jams his fingers badly. He can't swallow a yelp.

The yelp brings aid in the form of a very pissed off Winter Soldier, who snarls something in the agent's face before snapping the man's neck. Precision focus makes the Asset's face a mask of indifference, but his voice belies said apathy. “Get to safety. We'll meet at the rendezvous point. Go.”

Steve swallows around the knot in his throat and finishes his path to the counter where several civilians are hiding. They tell him about gunmen waiting outside the back door when he suggests taking that route from the building. These people apparently came prepared for any eventuality. It also means their only path of escape involves crossing the open foyer toward the visitor entrance where a grudge match is presently going down.

Help doesn't arrive so much as fate intervenes. One of the combatant's guns slides across the floor after said man's face makes acquaintance with the floor. Steve snatches it up, cocks the slide, and lays own cover fire from behind the counter while sending the civilians across to the door in pairs. One of his bullets hits its mark and blows through a man's hip who's forcing Bucky to fight on two fronts.

Only when the entryway has been cleared does he get a running start. He dives onto a rolling chair and zips himself across the open area like some modern Legolas performing feats of grace. Alas, his grace ends abruptly when the wheels make contact with a raised strip in front of the doorway, and momentum ejects him from the chair into the sunlight outside. No one saw that, right?

They saw it. The girls from earlier help him back to his feet. He urges all of them away from the building to take cover behind various cars, but the sound of sirens from first responders already makes the air shrill. Bucky doesn't have long to get himself free of the building before they have a whole different scenario to worry about.

Steve doesn't stick around to find out how it goes down, doesn't want to risk being made by the cops and followed back to their hotel. He ducks down and disappears from the crowd of onlookers, and as soon as he's inside, he starts throwing their stuff together and stuffing it in their stolen ride to be ready to go when Bucky gets back. Bucky will get back. He has to.

Hours creep past. The sun sinks toward the horizon. Shadows lengthen inside the hotel room. Darkness blankets him. He doesn't dare turn on the light in case the goons are after him. Steve waits, sitting with legs twisted like a pretzel in the middle of their king bed, and growing increasingly terrified his companion has been killed or arrested. He can't even say which would be worse. Being locked in a cage for the rest of his natural life might be worse than death for Bucky.

Out of desperation, he snatches his mother's rosary from his jacket pocket and starts working through the chaplets. The action is soothing to his frayed nerves, and if a cry for divine intervention is what it takes to bring Buck home safely, then that's what he's going to do.

He's worked himself into a minor fit listening for every creak or groan that might indicate someone coming, so when the door finally cracks open, he jumps and points the barrel of his pilfered gun at the doorway until a familiar form slides through into the darkness. His good hand shakes. His injured hand is wrapped in a towel filled with ice.

When Bucky finally eases the door closed, Steve makes a small sound of distress. He tosses the gun aside, rushes his companion, and throws both arms around the man's neck. The whole length of their bodies press together. Steve finds the man's face to bring his head down and slot their mouths together in a desperate sort of kiss that comes from spending hours worrying that the person you care about is lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

“You're alive. I was so scared. Thought I was going to get a call in the middle of the night again just like Mbali. Bucky, you're alive.”

Bucky is stiff for only a moment before transitioning into something more fluid. He palms Steve's ass, lifts him, and turns him to press his back into the door. Steve, meanwhile, crosses his ankles behind the man's back to help support his weight, not that Bucky is in any danger of dropping him. Their mouths meet again in open-mouthed, hungry kisses. There's nothing romantic about it, just the wet slide of lips and tongues as two people desperately search for reassurance.

When the frenetic pace slows, they press their foreheads together, mouths centimeters apart so that they're breathing in each other's ragged exhales. Every now and then, one of them will chase the other's mouth in a teasing brush of lips and tongue. Steve can't swallow the helpless little noises that escape from being so achingly intimate with Bucky. That part of him that he's becoming increasingly afraid belongs to Steve Rogers sings in perfect harmony with the parts of him that are him alone.

“We have to get out of here,” Bucky eventually whispers.

“I know. I already loaded up the car with our gear. Did you get the paintings?”

“They're in the trunk.”

Steve starts to pull away only to have his hand caught and held delicately between his companion's, who removes the towel and ice to have a better look. Breath hisses through the other man's lips. Nothing prepares Steve for the gentleness of Bucky's mouth grazing the angry flesh that's already starting to purple with bruises. A soft, desperate sort of noise escapes his companion.

Bucky breaks the silence by saying, “Go and start the car. I'll be out in a moment.”

He starts to comply with the request only to freeze near the doorway as Bucky, head bowed and looking miserable, slumps onto his knees to begin a series of utterances, sounds Steve must draw closer to make out even as his companion clamps metal fingers around his flesh digits.

“Magpie, magpie cooked the porridge. Fed it to the little children.” The first finger bends toward the palm. “She gives to this one. She gives to that one.” Each finger represents one child until Bucky comes to the last, his pinkie. “She does not give to this one.” The man bends the finger painfully backward. The soft pop of bone shatters the silence.

“Stop!” Distressed, Steve scrambles back across the room to fall to his knees in front of Bucky, seizing the other man's hand. Those fingers strain under his grasp in an attempt to carry out the ritual. “Why are you hurting yourself?”

“You have not bright water. You have not--”

His hand covers his companion's mouth to stop the litany of words. “Bucky. Babydoll.”

Bucky struggles against the restraint of his hand, claws it away while looking desperately across the distance between them. “Let me finish. Please, I have to finish.” His voice sounds small and broken.

“No. No, babydoll. Look at me.”

His companion's eye contact is reluctant at best.

“You don't have to do this.”

“The Asset needs punishment. The Asset allowed harm to his Stevie.”

Steve transfers his hands to cup his companion's cheeks, thumbs brushing away tear tracts on Bucky's face. “I don't want you to punish yourself. I don't want you to punish yourself ever again.”

“I must.”

“No. No, you mustn't. That's what they taught you. But babydoll, they're wrong. They're so goddamn wrong. Please. Please.” He folds the other man up in his arms, pulls Bucky's head down to his chest in some effort to give comfort as he rocks their bodies gently. “Please, don't ever hurt yourself again. They lied to you. They lied to you so much. They hurt you so bad.”

He sits there on his knees until they ache, trying to hold the other man tight enough as though he thought that if he gripped with enough force, he could push away all the awful things the enemy has done to Bucky. And it's so, so awful, conditioning him to give self-pain whenever he thinks he's done something wrong, enforcing their routines on him.

His own face is wet with tears by the time Bucky's trembling eases and the man finally engages in the embrace with shuddering huffs of breath. All Steve can do is glide his palm up and down in as comforting a touch as he can give while the man breaks down in his arms.

Eventually, Bucky eases his face away to look up at Steve.

Steve can't ever remember being looked at the same way, as though he's the sun.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “We have to go before the police start searching the hotels.”

Before the hour is up, they're on the road again and merging onto I-70 heading toward Kansas City. The drive is quiet. Barnes sits in the passenger seat with an eerie sort of stillness and looks straight ahead. Eventually, the man drops into a fitful doze.

Several hours later as they're nearing Lincoln, Nebraska, Steve pulls off at a small gas station just off the highway to fill the tank. He buys juice, trail mix, and a few snack cakes with the wad of money Bucky stuffed in the glove box earlier in order to take his medications. A few breaths from his rescue inhaler eases the tightness of his chest, and he's just wrapping his hand with a wad of gauze when his companion returns from scouting the area.

Breath hisses through the other man's teeth, and he crouches behind the open driver door to cradle Steve's hand. The proximal phalanges of the last three fingers are black and blue and clearly broken.

“You need x-rays,” the other man says. “These bones heal wrong, and you might not paint again.”

“It's fine,” Steve responds, his chin tilted up.

“Stevie.” There's a subtle change to Bucky's voice, a long-suffering exasperation that says he's getting him confused with Steve Rogers again. “God, he used to do that infuriating thing with his chin, too. Tilted his head just so and tensed his jaw, and I knew I was in for a fight.”

The comment takes Steve by surprise. It almost sounds like Bucky's referring to them as two different people. “We can't turn up at a hospital to have x-rays taken.”

A long moment of silence passes. “I can't. But you can. They could have killed you today.”

The way this conversation is going makes Steve's hackles stand up straight. “Stop talking like that. They didn't, okay? They didn't kill me. I'm right here.”

“You could lose your ability to paint and sketch.” It's said with some small amount of distress. “Won't be the cause of that. I'll drop you at an ER and continue to Oregon alone. Stark'll see your name register when you check in and come for you.”

“No.” Panic makes his heart thump awkwardly.

“Yes.” Bucky adds emphasis with a nod of his head.

Steve just jerks his own head side to side.

“He didn't sketch after becoming Captain America. They changed him. Had to figure out how to hold a pencil without snapping it, how to make the lines without gouging the tip into the paper. Watched him change. Captain America was a weapon. Steve Rogers—” He stopped to take a breath. “He was ethereal. The way he saw things and put 'em on paper. I loved Captain America. But I loved Steve Rogers more. Won't take that away from you the way I took it away from him.”

“That's not your decision.”

“It is. You're here 'cause I thought I needed your help, but I don't, not really. Could have gotten this far on my own. Your face made me remember what it's like to want to be human. It was selfish.”

“Bucky.” He reaches up with his good hand and cups the man's jaw. “Bucky, I want to be here. I've been remembering things, too, you know. Things that I shouldn't know. Things about your life with him. He's inside me for some reason, like maybe a past life or something.”

“You might lose the ability to paint.”

“You're worth it.”

“I'm not.”

“Look, just accept that you're stuck with me. Maybe we can find a local clinic somewhere and get the bones looked at without having to register at a big hospital. We can give them false names.”

Quiet descends, but Bucky finally nods.

A rush of relief makes him a little dizzy. He ducks his head so their foreheads rest together. “He forgave you, you know, for Frankie.”

Bucky leans back, startled. “He shouldn't have. I don't know why I did that with that Italian, just have bits and pieces of remembering Steve being so angry with me for stepping out on him.”

“You don't remember Frankie giving you a five spot for the sex? You don't remember using it to buy medication for Steve when he was sick with scarlet fever?”

“I don't.”

“Oh Bucky.” Unable to maintain distance between them, Steve curls his arms around the other man's head to pull it gently against his chest in order to cradle him. A few minutes pass before he continues, “I'm sorry for what happened at the hotel room. I didn't know you were in a crisis. Please forgive me, because I feel like I took horrible advantage by kissing you.”

That brings Bucky's head back up in order to search Steve's face. “Take advantage of me?”

“I feel like maybe you kissed me back because you had to make up for my hand.”

“Stevie, there's only one thing the Asset and Microsoft 1.0 agree on most of the time, and that's wanting you. Even back when we were at that squat in Pennsylvania, I wanted you. First time my dick's gotten hard since I can remember. Just don't always know how to express it the way a person does.”

“Oh.” He's too dumbfounded to say anything else.

“You keep saying I don't know the difference between Rogers and you, and it's true that you're so much alike in my head that I don't really differentiate, but it's also not true. Steve Rogers was a little diva who didn't know how to compromise to save his soul. You're gentler, softer, more compassionate. Rogers' enthusiasm, the way he just threw himself into things, would have scared the piss outta me right now. You make me feel safe, like I'm not under any pressure to be better, to be me again.”

“Oh.” It would be nice if his brain kicked into a different gear soon.

“You keep wanting me to make my own choices, and it scares the Hell out of me, but then when I make a choice, you don't believe it. Believe it, Roberts. I want you.”

Well, this was not how he expected the rest of the night to go. Steve scrambles out of the driver's seat in order to entwine his arms around Bucky's neck and cling to him, leaning up with kiss-eager lips to mold their mouths together right there in the middle of bum-fucked Nebraska where anybody could see them. It was the most exhilarating kiss of his life.

***

After wrapping Steve's hand securely, Bucky takes over behind the wheel to pull out of Lincoln onto I-80 with mixed emotions. His handlers hadn't created him to acknowledge fear. Fear is some nebulous idea that can be used to manipulate other people. His only fear response stems from displeasing his handlers and the punishments they would enact should he fail them. Earlier, he felt fear.

Seeing Steve tangling with the Hydra agent, so close to being mortally injured, still turns his guts to jelly, makes his metal hand open and close over the steering wheel repeatedly. Steve could have been killed. The one person who means anything to Bucky nearly died under his protection.

It replays behind his eyes like a horrific movie reel, and his mind slips. The malfunction pulses psychedelic colors behind his eyes, one set vibrant and real, the other gray. They overlap. He becomes lost in two different realities, can't kick hard enough to struggle up-stream. 

Glass scattered like diamonds across the floor. 

_Lego blocks crunch beneath his boots._

The agent kicks toward Steve's face. 

_A door creaks in the silent hours past midnight._

Thud of flesh against flesh.

_A play-pen set up near sliding glass doors. Vibrations of his footfalls shift a pile of diapers. They collapse like badly-stacked blocks._

Steve's gut-churning yelp.

_The shape of a sleeping woman on a sofa._

A gun centimeters away from the agent's hand.

_Moonlight glints off smooth, metal fingers reaching toward the woman's throat.  
 **Comply. Comply. Comply. Comply**._

The agent palms his gun.

_Whatever is playing on the television changes, sheds more light in the living room, glints off a glossy magazine on the coffee table. The Asset freezes.  
 **Comply. Comply. Comply. Comply**._

Yellow overhead lights glint off smooth, metal fingers.

_Red, white, and blue. A shield. Proud shoulders, wide chest. A beloved face. That beloved face. “I knew him.” Beside that beloved face stands a man. Blue jacket. A rifle.  
 **Complycomplycomplycomply**!_

“The Asset was supposed to be above personal connections.”

_A blue jacket. A rifle. A blue jacket. A rifle. A blue jacke **complycomplycomplycomplycomply**!_

A blue jacket. Red stripes. White sunglasses. Hauls the agent into his personal space. “I am not the Asset.” The sick crunch of bone. A neck breaks.

_“I am not the Asset.” Awe coloring the tones coming off his vocal cords. **Complycomplycom**........_

The shriek of a car horn jerks Bucky out of the trance-like state at the last second, allowing him to veer in a squeal of tires off the side of the interstate to avoid colliding with the car ahead of him. Black rubber lays down the path as the vehicle slides to a halt, nose centimeters away from ramming through a wire fence. Wisps of smoke drift up from the burned rubber.

He gasps, collapses back against the seat and breathes hard from the sudden shock combined with the memories churning into a mixed up soup in his brain. It hurts. Everything hurts. He's so tired of trying to untangle the crossed wires, tired of struggling to find himself in amongst the Asset's protocols. His head drifts into his open palms. Tears come.

She isn't dead, and it goes like this:

1.) 1991, Chairman Vladimir Kryuchkov, head of the KGB, and seven other Soviet leaders attempt to wrest power from the Soviet government, leading to the arrest of then-president Mikhail Gorbachev.

2.) Following the failed attempt, President Gorbachev orders the dismantle of the KGB which is to be succeeded by the Federal Counterintelligence Service. It later becomes the Federal Security Service.

3.) Chairman Vladimir Kryuchkov is arrested for leading the insurgents but is later freed in an amnesty deal and dies in 2007 a free man.

4.) Outwardly, the KGB breaks up. Secretly, the organization goes underground where former-chairman Aleksander Lukin returns to rebuild.

5.) High ranking KGB agent Sonja Kuznetsov defects from the KGB some time after it going underground with a series of documents that can expose to the rest of the world the organization's continued worldwide operations.

6.) In 2018, Sonja Kuznetsov, now living as Melissa Benson in Oregon, gets sloppy and inadvertently allows her current location and identity to be leaked to KGB servers. Chairman Aleksander Lukin dispatches secret operative Winter Soldier to find, interrogate, and terminate the traitor.

7.) The Winter Soldier malfunctions.

“Bucky? Hey, you remember that breathing thing? We're going to do the breathing thing again.” Steve's voice is soft and gives Bucky sufficient forewarning before the man takes his hand to rest the metal palm against Steve's chest. “In for three. Out for three.”

Breath scrapes into his lungs like sandpaper and catches there for several awful seconds, but feeling Steve's slim chest deflate allows him to copy the motion, forcing himself to exhale. It goes on for several minutes until he feels like he can breathe on his own again.

She isn't dead. The Asset lied to his handlers. The Asset lied to his handlers. The Asset lied to his--

“Stevie, I can't--” He gulps down a few more breaths when the tension ties him in knots again.

“S'okay, babydoll. Look at me, okay?” 

Fingers slip beneath Bucky's chin and guide his face until he can look into the other man's baby blues.

“In for three, and out for three. You can do this.”

A second round of breathing exercises calms the last of the anxiety attack, and he finally surges forward to press his forehead against Steve's just to feel the heat of the other man's body. “'M sorry.”

“What for, babydoll?”

“Almost got you killed again.”

“That wasn't nothing. I'm used to almost dying every winter.” Steve's light tone hints at teasing. “You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. We should find somewhere to stay for a few hours.”

“They might be tailing us.”

“And we might drive off the side of the road and die in a fiery car crash.”

He shudders at the very idea and consents to make a detour to the town of Broken Bow so as not to be right off the main interstate. Small towns mean they stand out more but are also less likely to come up as possible search points for whoever is trailing them. Agreeing to stop brings relief.

Bucky lets Steve take the wheel for the two hour trip where they get a room at the Boarders Inn and Suites. The fact that it's reasonably near the Jennie M. Melham Memorial Medical Center is proverbial icing on the cake. That's something Bucky will worry about when he's not ready to climb out of his own skull. For now, he gets their gear stowed in a rinky-dink motel room, at which point, Steve insists on heading out to get them something to eat.

“I'll go,” Bucky says, flesh hand shaking as he reaches for the key on the nightstand. The soft yellow light of a bedside lamp makes him look jaundiced in the mirror.

“Buck, give me the key. I'm perfectly capable of walking across the parking lot to McDonalds and getting us some food. You look like shit. Take a shower. Rest. I'm thinking you need some time to decompress after a day like today.”

Uncertainty and anxiety mix like an estuary as he glances back and forth between the room key and Roberts, fighting against a desire not to give up control. Finally, a soft rush of air escapes. He drops the key into the other man's open palm. “You're not back in thirty minutes, I come looking for you.”

“Fair enough. What do you want?”

He shakes his head. Unlikely he could stomach food right now, especially not something greasy. A quick trip to his duffel allows him to upend the bag where he's stowed articles of clothing. The two remaining protein bars tumble out amidst balled up underwear that makes him cringe when he sniffs them. Time to do laundry. A little smile brings sunshine through his gloominess.

“What?” Steve asked, voice soft.

“I want to do laundry. Normal people want clean clothes.”

Steve sidles closer to touch the small of his back. “We can do that here. Get you some clean things to wear. Makes you feel good wearing clean things. Can you tell me what you want to eat?”

It brings him back around to the two protein bars, and he picks one up to wave it at Steve.

His companion opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

“You're not a fish outta water, pal.”

Looks like Stevie wants to argue again, and Bucky is just not in the right frame of mind to tolerate being pushed around over what he puts in his mouth. He desperately doesn't want to defend his position against the scrappy little brawler which is when his companion surprises the Hell out of him.

“There's a general market right down the road. You want me to get you some more of those?”

Wide eyes. It's his turn to look like a fish out of water.

“Hey, don't look at me like that. When this is over and you're feeling better, I'm gonna burn every box of protein bars I can get my hands on, but you keep asking me to respect your decisions. Suppose that means respecting what you want to put in your body. Long as you're eating regular meals every other day, I'm not gonna complain anymore. You just gotta keep from losing more weight.”

Relief, sweet and pure. He cups the nape of Stevie's neck and pulls him in for a brief kiss. “Thanks, pal.” Then, feeling a little lighter again, he pushes the other man toward the door with a playful slap on the ass. “If you're going to the market, get some lube and condoms, too.”

Steve's face turns tomato red before hurrying outside.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insert romantic love ballads here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic Smut.

The small bottle of lube and pack of condoms is an ever-present distraction sitting on the nightstand next to their single bed. More often than not, Steve catches himself looking at the items and feeling his face catch on fire. Again. So maybe he eats his crispy chicken salad and fries a little too quickly. And maybe he gives himself brain freeze trying to slurp down the milkshake too fast, but at least Bucky doesn't see or sense the growing anticipation lighting up Steve's spine and central nervous system.

His companion is much too busy slurping the protein shake which Steve had bought to go along with those awful, dreaded protein bars and looking at the computer built into his prosthetic. Every now and then, the man's eyes pinch, bringing out how badly that man needs someone to take hedge trimmers to his eyebrows, but looking so close also reminds Steve how fucking cute the dimple in his chin is.

Some overwhelming bubble in his chest breaks, and he closes the distance between them in order to take Bucky by surprise and press their lips together. He catches the man in the process of opening his mouth, and whatever surprised noise is about to come out is muffled by the kiss. Pulling back, he can't suppress the little giggle that escapes. There's no mistaking the flaming flush spreading on his cheeks.

“What was that for?”

He shrugs. “Tell me what you're doing.”

His companion looks back at the small screen. “Computer just got done analyzing the nano-processors. Here. Can you read that?” 

Cyrillic text fills the screen: Rusted and Preserved

The man swipes a finger across the screen to change the image.

More Cyrillic text: Furnace and Cryostasis

“These are more of those words you don't like.”

Bucky nods.

“So do you think maybe this is some kind of code that has to do with the conditioning they used to make you compliant?”

Another nod followed by a brief shrug and then a second nod.

“Does reading the words make you uncomfortable?”

A shake of the head.

“They need to be spoken?”

A nod.

“Can you write down the words? Then I'll know how many of these things we're looking for.”

A shake of the head.

“Bucky, I really need--”

Another shake of the head.

“S'okay. Talking about this makes you uncomfortable. Just take deep breaths, and let's set this aside for a little while.” Steve scooted closer and propped his chin atop the man's shoulder. “I'm going to take a shower. Then you can tell me what you want to do with those.” He indicated the sex paraphernalia sitting proud as you please waiting to be used.

“Want you to fuck me, Stevie.”

Well then. His shower won't be uncomfortable at all. “Are you sure? I need you to be really sure about this, Bucky, because I don't want to inadvertently hurt you. I never want to hurt you, babydoll.”

The man looks a little exasperated and opens his mouth to speak.

Steve cuts him off, “Babydoll, I'm only making a big deal out of this because I care about you. A lot, and I'm not going to risk taking advantage of you. I don't want you to wake up a year from now and suddenly feel used or violated. Remember when we talked about consent?”

Bucky nods.

“It's so important to me that I have genuine consent from you. My husband—he died three years ago—was raped shortly before he met me. Some people at this party he attended raped him while he was drunk. The police didn't want to make anything of it because apparently you can't rape men, which is bullshit, so I watched him suffer through feelings of violation and helplessness, worthlessness.”

The way his companion's looking at him makes him duck his head. The compassion in that gaze is so genuine he can't help the stinging of moisture as tears threaten.

“What was his name?”

“Mbali.”

“Is it—okay if I light a candle for him?”

That brought the tears. Nodding, bottom lip clenched his teeth, Steve cuddled up inside the other man's strong arms. “I'd like that. Thank you.”

“You don't have to do this with me if it feels wrong.”

“No.” Then, stronger, he continues, “No, I want to be with you. Just gotta make sure you want it, too.”

“I want it. I want you. Steve Roberts. Want you to be my first time.” He goes on to say, “Been born three times, you know. First was Microsoft 1.0: J. B. Barnes. Second was the Asset. Third is me. I ain't the Asset. I ain't J. B. Barnes. I'm me. Want you to be Microsoft 3.0's first time.”

Snuffling back the tears, he eases back to look up into his companion's eyes with a smile. “Then let me get a quick shower. I can't feel sexy when I feel gross. You better be naked by the time I get back.”

He's never taken such a quick shower in all his born days, his progress impeded only by the broken fingers he's unwrapped so the gauze doesn't get soaked. With the hot water streaming around him and thoughts of Bucky's naked body, he's already well on his way to being hard by the time he towels off. That state of arousal isn't dissuaded by padding into the bedroom and seeing his lover sprawled naked, legs crossed at the ankle, metal arm tucked beneath his head, flesh arm absently cradling a half-chub and a furry sac. The image sends shivers of delight straight into Steve's pelvis.

“Before we get started, can you help me?” He indicates the wad of gauze and a bottle of Advil.

The coiled grace as Bucky moves is as much a turn-on as the way his muscles glide along his skeleton, all those edges leading down into the heavy cradle of his pelvis where a bush of springy hair encircles a truly mouth-watering, uncut penis. Steve forgets to breathe and wonders not for the first time how someone so stunning could be remotely attracted to him. They are like fire and water: dark, muscular, and adaptable—the magician—versus thin, willful, and stubborn—the hanged man.

Bottom lip between his teeth, Steve ignores the ache in his hand while Bucky wraps it to support the broken bones then pops two Advil before climbing on the bed to sit, lotus-style, in front of the man who is about to become his lover.

Bucky attempts to move forward to engage in a kiss.

Steve braces a hand against the man's chest. “Let me look at you. You're so beautiful.”

A blush teases the other man's cheeks as he ducks his gaze away.

He won't allow his soon-to-be-lover to hide and tucks fingers beneath chin to urge Bucky's gaze back to his. “You're beautiful.”

“Like an efficient weapon,” breathes Bucky.

He shakes his head. “Like a man.”

Fingertips brush Bucky's cheek, trail down to outline the angular curve of a refined jaw. “This is beautiful. The angle of your jaw and the way it slants toward your chin is so refined.” The pads of his fingers follow that slant toward the man's chin. “And this is beautiful, so delicate. Do you know how many times I've wanted to kiss this dimple?” Finally. Finally! He presses his thumb into the cleft that's been driving him mad with want and leans forward to kiss that beautiful feature.

Bucky's breath stutters.

“And these.” Steve's thumb traces Bucky's lips. “You have such a beautiful mouth, a perfect cupid's bow. The habit you have of biting your bottom lip has also made me crazy with lust.” He moves forward for a soft, chaste kiss.

His companion's cheeks have gone mottled, eyes pinched, brow furrowed.

“Also these.” He skims a thumb around each eye, careful to sweep away moisture that's spilled over the bottom lids. “So expressive. Stormy with confusion, icy with distance, a warm cornflower when you're happy and engaged. Your eyes are my favorite.” He brushes a kiss over each eye.

By the time he pulls back, Bucky is in tears.

“Talk to me, babydoll. What are you feeling?”

“Wanted.”

“You are. So much.”

“How do you do this to me? How do you make me feel... How do you make me feel like a real man?”

“Because you are. You've just been lost for such a long time.”

“You found me.” Bucky's voice is soft, quiet, reverent.

“No, babydoll. You found you. I only held the flashlight.”

Steve can't take it anymore and has to kiss this beautiful, resilient man. Their lips slot together, pulling a surprised sound from Bucky's throat, and as his lips part, Steve gentles his way into his lover's mouth with soft, teasing presses of his tongue. Kissing Bucky is like breathing air, easy as pie but sometimes fraught with tension. Kissing Bucky is like asthma. Only in the most exhilarating sense of breathlessness. And as he cups the nape of the man's neck, his lover produces a raspy sound that sends all the blood rushing from Steve's brain into his dick.

His first gasp comes when Bucky pulls Steve onto his lap so they can get closer, an unexpected noise of surprise that is followed by little mews of pleasure, and Steve drapes both arms over Buck's shoulders to curl his forearms around the man's head. He eases back to breathe, their lips barely grazing as they enjoy the closeness, the press of naked skin they shared between them.

“Next time we do this, I'm going to show you how to douche so I can stick my tongue in your ass.”

Bucky leans back from the kiss, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, looking thunderstruck.

“S'okay, babydoll. If you don't like it, you can tell me to stop, but you should try it once.”

“Your tongue in my what?”

His lover sounds so gobsmacked by the idea that Steve laughs. He laughs and presses his face against the top of the man's shoulder while giggles shake his body. Thick arms coming up to wrap around him prevent him from vibrating apart.

“Later, Bucky. Kiss me now.”

They kiss like fire meeting gasoline, with Bucky's big palms engulfing the small of his back and Steve's artist hands sliding between their bodies so he can rub the pad of his thumb around his lover's nipple, pulling a moan from Bucky as said nipple pebbles into a tight kernel. When that fails to satisfy, he breaks the kiss in order to brush his mouth down the man's chest with little kitten licks and sharp nips of his teeth, small bruises left in his wake until he draws a nipple into the heat of his mouth.

“Steve,” rasps Bucky.

“Yeah, babydoll?”

“What if I wanna stick my tongue in your ass?”

More giggles. “Stop making me laugh when I'm trying to get your dick in my mouth.”

“It's a legitimate question.”

He skims his way down to lick a long stripe from the base of Bucky's cock to the head just peeking out from its foreskin. There, he breathes a strong exhalation against the sensitive flesh and watches with fascination as Bucky's cock twitches. “Well, then I guess we'll need to buy two douches.”

A breathy moan escapes the other man's control. He falls back against the pillow to re-tuck the metal arm beneath his head, the long lines of his body pulling tense.

“Relax, babydoll. I'm gonna make you feel so good.”

His tongue slips beneath the protective foreskin a teasing second before rolling the foreskin back in order to wrap his lips around the glans of Bucky's cock, an action that produces a strangled, warbling sort of noise that makes him look up to check in. His lover's muscles bulge with flesh hand fisted in the blanket beneath them. Bucky looks like a man enjoying bliss, so Steve takes him deeper. What his lips can't reach, his hand does.

Broken whimpers from a lover deeply enjoying his ministrations cascade down Steve's spine to pool in the cradle of his pelvis. It's driving him bonkers, so much so that he ruts his hips against the cheap motel bedspread for some relief. The much-needed friction allows him to find extra patience. He also finds a rhythm. Mouth thrusting down. Hand rising up. Bucky's thighs tremble around his head.

“'M not gonna-- God.”

“Just Steve,” he responds with a pleased little grin.

“Not gonna last like this.”

No sense teasing and tormenting when the man's probably gone seventy years without a consensual orgasm, so Steve pulls his lips off with a pop, sucks one testicle into his mouth, and urges Bucky's legs farther apart in order to gently rub a knuckle against his lover's hole. Said hole flutters against the touch, and Bucky tenses.

“S'okay, babydoll. You need stop? I'm not gonna be mad or disappointed.”

Bucky shakes his head in denial and doubles down by saying, “Don't wanna stop. Just feels good.”

The bottle of lube is far enough away he has to relinquish the warm body beneath him in order to grab it with his bad hand, resulting in a little hiss of discomfort.

Bucky snatches the bottle, eyes full of concern as he sits up to cup Steve's chin. “Don't hurt yourself. This is probably where I should tell you that we can stop whenever.”

“I don't want to stop. Just got a little over-enthusiastic. Come on. Gimme.” He makes gabby hands for the bottle, but Bucky doesn't hand it over until he's popped the cap himself.

Resettling between his lover's outstretched legs, Steve nuzzles at the heavy sac, drawing in the musky odor of Bucky's sex and then pressing his nose against the man's perineum. At the same time, his finger finally breaches the tight ring of muscle. He moves gently until the pucker relaxes only to add a second finger. It's likely been a while for Bucky, and there was no power on Earth or in Heaven that could make him rush through opening him up and risk hurting the man.

Only after his lover seems relaxed around two fingers does Steve crawl up the man's body to kiss him again. Bucky's lips—the man's eyes are hooded, thick lashes fanning over eyes gone glassy with desire—chase after his when he tries to pull away, so he returns for a series of uncoordinated, messy kisses that leave Steve's body shuddering and his skin pebbled with goosebumps.

“You ready, babydoll?”

“Only since last week,” Bucky responds with a lazy half-grin.

Opening the foil packet and rolling on the condom draws his lover out of his earlier complacency, and he watches with interest while Steve slicks himself with a generous amount of lube. It's Bucky's turn to reach out and cradle Steve's slim hips. “Look at you. I ain't seen nothing so beautiful before. So delicate but so powerful.”

Steve feels his cheeks heat. Breathless and unrepentant in his happiness, he guides himself into Bucky as gently as possible. The man stiffens a little, so he eases back and simply rests there with the head of his cock stretching the man's hole, feeling like if he moves now, he might come in a matter of seconds, and how awful would that be? That would be real awful.

Bucky's patience dissolves first, causing the man to thrust his hips upward to ram himself over Steve's cock. There's a brief hiss followed by Winter Soldier determination making Bucky's eyes sharp as razor blades and intense with an impending storm.

Steve freezes. A slight yelp escapes from the sudden and jarring way he bottoms out inside the other man's tight heat. But hands cradle his lover's hips to try to discourage him from taking over. He leans down to gentle the man with a brush of lips.

“Slowly, babydoll. We don't have to rush. Gonna take care of you whether it's now or ten minutes from now.” No way Steve Roberts manages ten whole minutes inside Bucky Barnes without losing his absolute mind, which currently resides somewhere inside his dick.

Taking a full breath is the yardstick by which he measures his ability to continue. A slight wheeze constricts his lungs, but he ignores it in favor of pulsing his hips in a soft rhythm, moving his hardness inside Bucky by mere centimeters at a time, but Mister Impatience isn't having that.

Strong thighs lock around Steve's hips, heels digging into his ass to pull him tighter, harder, faster back into Bucky's body whenever he pulls out, his lover using whatever advantages he has in an effort to speed things up. It prompts Steve to look down to check in again. Bucky doesn't appear distressed, just completely undone, head rocking side to side, hair in sable tendrils standing stark against the white pillowcases. Head thrown back and chest arched out.

Control slithers through his fingers watching Bucky unravel beneath him. He picks up speed. Rocks back to sit on his heels and pulls his lover's hips onto his lap so that he's hammering upward and right there. Right fucking there. His lover shouts. Pupils dilate until only a sliver of blue remains. Pearls of semen glisten down the man's cock when Steve finds and drives the head of his own into the man's prostate. So beautiful. So goddamned beautiful.

“Steve. Stevie. Please, Stevie. Don't stop.”

Not stopping even if the world catches fire. Sweat beads his body. He's getting close to the tipping point, close to coming, close to risking an asthma attack, so long fingers curl around Bucky's shaft to pump his cock in time with Steve hitting his prostate and suddenly it's there. Blinding and vibrant. A shout tears from over-worked lungs. Steve comes effortlessly.

He continues rocking his hips to fuck Bucky through his own orgasm and doesn't entirely know when said orgasm left ropes of semen glistening on Bucky's chest and stomach. There's even a little glob of it clinging to the man's lip, something which produces a giggle from Steve, who leans over to lick the moisture away in order to kiss the man deep and languidly.

After a few minutes, Steve reluctantly pulls out only to flop onto the bed beside Bucky and drape himself over the man's sweaty flesh. Shitty lungs and heart don't let him stay there long, though. They force him to roll over and take a couple of lungfuls of his rescue inhaler and a heart pill when the rhythm doesn't settle right away. Then he returns to his previous position.

“That was--” Bucky's attempt at speech fails. “Where'd you learn to do that?”

“Same place you did, I reckon,” Steve responds with a cocky little smirk.

“Can we do it again?”

Steve laughs until he's breathless. “Calm down, pal. You might be able to get it up again in five minutes, but I sure as Hell can't.”

He wasn't wrong. Bucky was already sporting a half-chub that was filling by the second.

***

Steve feels like he's walking on clouds the next morning. Nothing can ruin a day that started by making slow, sweet love to his amazing Bucky Barnes, who surprised him by being willing to eat a full breakfast at a diner down the street. So when Bucky suggests they drive up to the Jennie M Melham Memorial Hospital just ten minutes away to get his hand checked out, he suspects nothing but that Bucky is concerned about his ability to paint in the future, something which Steve finds delightfully adorable, although he has to admit that he finds everything that man does this morning adorable.

They park outside the emergency department, and Bucky turns, resting his arm along the back of Steve's backrest with a grin. “Tell them you need some X-rays. They'll want to cast you. Make sure you get a nifty color. I'm thinking red to go with the blue of your eyes.”

A little chuckle escapes, and he leans between the seats to invite Bucky down for a kiss. “I got this, babydoll. Probably gonna take a couple of hours, though. You sure you want to wait out here for that long? You wouldn't rather come inside with me?”

“Nope. Better to keep my face off any security cameras.” A little more serious, the other man turns partially in order to cup both of Steve's cheeks for a proper kiss. “Don't be nervous, Stevie. You're gonna be okay.”

“Course I am, Buck. I'm getting my hand put in a cast, not going in for major surgery. You'll be here when I get back, right?” Something pulls at his gut, but he can't be sure what causes it.

“Of course. Now get going. The longer you wait, the later we'll get back on the road.”

Steve takes one last look at Bucky before getting out of the car. The inside the emergency department is practically deserted, a good thing as it will mean there'll be less of a wait to be seen, so he signs in at the nursing station as Mister James Kirk and gives the nurse all the identification Bucky prepared for him the night before. Something is wrong. He can feel it deep down despite his attempts at denial.

[“You signed up for the war!” Steve yells, face red, lungs tight. “They were gonna draft me anyway, Stevie. You know that. Figured if I signed up before I got drafted, they'd give me extra benefits. Let me get started sooner so I might make sergeant before shipping out.” Tension buzzes in the air. “Stevie, talk to me.” Steve's shoulders shake. Tears hot on his cheeks. His bad ear throbs from the cold and tension. “You're gonna die, Buck. You know how many boys are dying over there? You got any idea what it's gonna do to me to lose you?” “Hey, don't talk like that, pal. There's a lotta boys living over there, too. Don't send me away thinking I'm gonna die.” Steve turns into the love of his life's chest when comfort is offered, folds himself flat against the man to unleash a torrent of sobs. “What's gonna happen if you're one of the unlucky ones?” “S'okay. I worked it out so most of my pay's gonna come to you, and if I die, my ma says she'll give you my death benefits. You need it more than them.” “Don't talk like that. I can't lose you.”]

He's right. Something is wrong. After X-rays (one intermediate phalanges is broken and three of the proximal phalanges) and a plain white cast, Steve shuffles into the parking lot to find their stolen car gone. Panic and heartache shoot through his chest, a spear that rends flesh and bone alike, and somehow... Somehow he knew this was going to happen before it did. Last night was too good for the closeness and happiness to continue.

Steve slumps onto the sidewalk. Bucky's gone, and he's a good enough operative to stay gone.


	10. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: For mentions of Winter Soldier type torture.

Steve's allows himself to be maudlin about the whole thing for roughly three minutes before deciding that Bucky doesn't get to make the decisions about what Steve does with Steve's life. Bucky is not the boss of him. That old Roberts stubbornness kicks into high gear, making the determination that since he knows Bucky's current destination, he's just going to turn up like a bad fungus, and boy will James B. Barnes be sorry he ever underestimated Steven G. Roberts. But first he needs a plan.

“Okay, Rogers, we got this. Let's go get our bae back.”

First thing he does is find the wad of cash his reluctant-traveling-companion stuffed into the backpack containing Steve's clothes. Second thing he does is catch a ride with some kindly granny leaving the medical center who's willing to drive him back to the main drag where the hotel they stayed at last night exists. Third thing he does is buy a cheap cell phone from the corner market, at which point, he also buys a protein bar. He throws the protein bar on the pavement outside and jumps on it repeatedly. Fourth thing he does is get a room at Boarders Inn and Suites under the name Steven G. Roberts.

Fifth thing he does is wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And...

Three hours later, the door of his hotel room caves inward to admit the red and gold of Iron Man's armor, the black of Black Widow's cat suit, and the red, white, and blue of Sam Wilson's Captain America shield. Steve smiles at them around a mouthful of greasy McDonalds double quarter pounder with cheese and waves with the fingers sticking out of the white cast he's since colored gray and doodled mechanical plates on to represent Bucky's arm.

“Where's the Winter Soldier?” Tony's voice sounds tinny and harsh.

“Calm down, Stark,” Wilson snaps before moving closer and coming down to Steve's level by sitting on the bed. “Man, you had me scared to death, Roberts. Are you okay? Did he break your hand? How did you get away?”

Black Widow remains silent but observant.

Steve chews, swallows, and wipes his mouth with a thin, restaurant napkin. “One, I'm fine. Of course he didn't break my hand. That happened at the museum when a bunch of Hydra goons tried taking clues Bucky needs to find out what the KGB wants from him.”

“The first Captain America destroyed Hydra back in the forties,” Tony asserts.

“And the KGB was dismantled in the nineties,” Widow says.

“Yeah, well, I guess he didn't kill 'em hard enough, 'cause Bucky's been racing them to collect certain intelligence his KGB handlers sent him after, and I think Barnes knows better than anyone that the KGB is still running operations. Wouldn't be the first time a secret organization did secret things while secreting. Not my fault you're too unobservant to notice.”

A soft hiss sounds as the faceplate of the Iron Man armor lifts to reveal Anna Pavlova grand jeté-ing across the man's chin. That goatee. “Kid, you've got a mouth on you--”

Steve climbs to his feet on the bed and snaps, “I am not kid. I'm Steve Roberts, named after the greatest soldier ever known and carrying the reincarnated memories of a man who deeply loves his husband, who incidentally, has been a prisoner of war since falling from a train in the mid-forties saving the free world from Hydra. And by the way, he's been tortured and brainwashed into serving Russian interests. That man is a hero, and if you don't muzzle your disinterest in him, so help me, I will find a way to peel you out of that tin can and rip Anna Pavlova off your face one hair at a time.”

Sam laughs.

The Black Widow's lips twitch.

Tony Stark scowls.

“Tony, stand down,” she finally says. “Tell us what you know about James Barnes' goals here.”

“No. At least not until we've laid some ground rules.”

Tony's scowl deepens.

Sam waves a hand to indicate Steve has the floor.

“One, I know where he's going, but I'm not telling you until you agree to certain things. The first is that no one takes Sergeant Barnes into custody. If you try arresting him, he's going to think you're just another KGB or Hydra, who will use and abuse him. It will make him worse than he is.”

“You know we can't guarantee that, Man. The Winter Soldier--”

“Is a ghost whose real identity hasn't been leaked in seventy years, a name that belongs to a man who has since been declared dead. He even has a fucking gravestone in Arlington.”

The Black Widow's lips twitch again, and she says to no one in particular, “I like him. Got a good head on his shoulders and a mouth that amuses me.”

Tony spears her with an intense look.

Sam moves a hand to indicate Steve should carry on.

“Two, when this is over with, Jamie, Bucky, and myself go free. You will not contact us. You won't monitor us. You won't station agents within five hundred yards of us.”

“Listen, Kid. The guy burst into a gallery full of civilians and--”

“Didn't kill a single person,” Steve interrupts. “The only people he's killed since all this started have been Hydra or KGB. You're so focused on determining that Barnes is a threat when you should be helping him stay free of their control. They've tried to collect him twice.”

“Do you even know what he's after?” asks Sam.

“Sort of. We were on our way to another location looking for intel when we ran into a nest of Hydra. That was when my hand was broken. Bucky left me at the medical center because he wouldn't allow me to continue and risk having me killed. He abandoned me to save me.”

Sam circles back around to something Steve said earlier. “You said you have the reincarnated memories of Steve Rogers. What do you mean by that?”

“I'm reliving memories of Rogers' and Barnes' shared life together. They were married in an illegal and unsanctioned ceremony by their CO, a ceremony that was attended by Howard Stark.” He moved his glance over to pin Tony again.

“How is that possible?” Widow asks.

“How are any of you possible? How was it possible for a five foot four, sickly young man to be pumped full of some serum that turned him into a six foot two powerhouse? The how isn't nearly as important as having pieces of him alive inside me when he was treated so cruelly by life.”

“Gimme a minute to talk things over with my teammates in private. Don't you dare go anywhere.”

“If I was gonna go anywhere, do you think I would have registered this room under my name?”

Steve crams a few more fries in his mouth while watching the Avengers file outside to have their confab. Only when the door closes does he allow himself to fall backward against the pillows, his hands shaking slightly from the effort and the nerve required to stand up to authority figures the way he did. It was for Bucky. He's got an awful, awful feeling that he will do just about anything for that man.

After a few minutes, he creeps to the door to press his ear against the surface where he can eavesdrop on whatever is taking place outside. His ma would twist his earlobe if she found out, but this is too important to get lost in social niceties. He figures she'll forgive him considering there's a life at stake. He fishes inside his pocket to lay hands on the worn rosary to whisper a prayer for intercession.

Tony's saying something about Stockholm Syndrome and the inability of a Steve Rogers clone to be unbiased where Barnes is concerned. Sam seems firmly on the side of at least giving Barnes the chance to prove his worthwhile intentions. In the end, it's Natasha Romanoff who is the deciding factor, who has apparently been a first-hand witness to the ways the Russian intelligence community can manipulate and twist minds, something about Department X and someone giving her a chance. 

By the time they return, Steve's sitting on the bed again trying to affect a nonchalant posture with legs crossed at the ankles and good hand tucked behind his head.

“Before we accept or decline your conditions, we have a couple of our own,” Sam begins. “Firstly, Barnes must agree to a full debriefing. We'll head up the debriefing, but he must come clean about what he's been forced to do during his time as the Winter Soldier. Secondly, he'll have to agree to divulge significant intelligence regarding the KGB, Department X, and Hydra. If he agrees to both those conditions, then we won't divulge his former life as the Winter Soldier to any federal bureaus or law enforcement. That will only cover the things he has done. If he does anything from this point forward that isn't strictly self-defense, it nullifies our agreement.”

“I can't make that agreement for him, Sam. You know I can't.”

“I know, Kid. Good guy like you? You would never take away someone's autonomy, but we can't move forward without those conditions. You know we can't just let someone of his caliber and with his kind of information go without a debrief.”

“I know,” Steve responds. “My last condition: I'm coming with you. No way does he stand down around the Avengers without me there.”

“Done,” Sam agrees and presents his hand.

“Let's go save a national icon,” Steve agrees and shakes hands with Captain America.

***

Voices haunt his subconscious every time he closes his eyes. Without Steve there to keep him grounded, the Asset wanders untethered from the present. Those voices. They are slithering down his spinal cord like a ringneck snake.

_“The sale's going down in two weeks. Hydra buyers will be in position to accept transfer of the Asset in Cincinnati, Ohio” a tech whispers._

_ “Jesus jumped up Christ. Not here. What if he's listening?” _

_“He's a vegetable until he receives orders. See?” The man waves a hand in front of the Asset's face, and both laugh when the Asset's eyes do not track the movement._

A shrieking sound breaks through the Asset's daze, snapping him back to reality. The car sits idle in front of a light gone green. Accelerator, pal, Microsoft 1.0 says inside his head.

_“What are they getting rid of him for anyway?” asks the technician._

_ “Malfunction's getting worse. Controlling him is becoming a problem. Just last week he went psycho in the middle of prepping for a mission and killed a dozen technicians before his handlers got him. Had to code him to reset and get him to cooperate.” _

**Shriek!**

_Green light. Go_ , says Microsoft 1.0.

_“Seems a shame to get rid of him. He created an entire era with these hands,” the tech says. And he touches the Asset. He touches the Asset._

_ “You wouldn't say that if you saw the scene in that safe house. Anyhow, the nano-processors are downloading the codes, and we've got orders to finish prepping him for this last mission. Handler's got him chasing down a traitor to get back some stolen intel. Then he goes into cold storage.” _

**Shriiiiiiiek!**

Pounding on the driver side window snaps him from his trance-like state, and he whips his head around, fleshy fingers already closing on the P226 resting in a leg holster. Some yuppie beats the window of the stolen vehicle again, the man's voice muffled.

“You blind or somethin'?”

The Asset reads the potential hostile's lips but doesn't respond.

“I'm talkin' to you!”

Blue eyes go flat and vacant. He's perfected the art of staring right through people, something that usually unnerves them to the point of backing off. This idiot, however, has a dumb streak a mile back into his family tree when Sister Dumb climbed onto the dick of Brother Dumb.

Hostile gets more irate over being ignored. “You know wha', you need to get out that car so I can teach you a goddamn lesson.”

 _We're drawing a crowd, pal._ Microsoft 1.0 sounds hellaciously bored.

The yuppie yanks on his door handle where the lock prevents said door from being opened. Said yuppie then reverts to pounding on the glass again.

The Asset whips out his gun, and in one liquid motion, blasts out the window which is followed by the nearly imperceptible thunk of a slug shattering the yokel's skull and driving deep into the brain.

**Shriiiiiiiek!**

**Poundrattlepound!**

“Git out that car, asshole!”

_Pal, if you don't snap to attention, we're going to splatter that chucklehead's brains on the asphalt._

Not dead? His vision suddenly crisps, and he jerks to look at the irate hostile still pounding on his window, the gun tucked securely in its holster. Not smoking in his hand. No broken window. No blood on the pavement. Choking. Air. No air. Can't breathe.

 _“In one, two, three. Out one, two, three.”_ The phantom sound of Steve's voice is a wash of fresh air.

The Asset finally slams a heavy combat boot against the accelerator, the car peeling away from its position in front of a red light and leaving streaks of rubber dug into the asphalt. Tires squeal as he rockets through the cross traffic that has the green light. Motorists lay on their horns, but he leaves the civilian standing in the middle of the intersection looking dumbstruck. Not dead. Still alive. Fuck you, Wyoming. May your fields be salted and burned.

Time loses meaning without Steve to consider. He's still got the stock of protein bars and shakes his former mission assist purchased in Broken Bow, so there's no need to stop for food, and when traveling alone, he doesn't require the same sleep patterns as a civilian. That means he makes good time on I 80, which takes him through Rawlins and Rock Springs.

I 80 turns into I 84 once he passes into Utah, but he skirts Salt Lake city and heads north into Idaho. He stops to refuel in Ontario, Oregon before continuing northwest on 84. The miles of interstate zip by in a haze of blurring asphalt and traffic. More than an hour is lost outside Huntington due to road construction that leaves him drumming metal fingers against the steering wheel and wishing for nothing more than to have Steve Roberts in the passenger seat singing in his off-key voice to whatever song pours from the radio. He misses Stevie.

The ghost of Steve's cock inside him faded a day ago, but remembering it now, while slowed to a crawl and penned in by other cars, has him slumping in his seat and pressing the flesh palm against the bulge in his trousers. Funny how having sex once suddenly makes his body crave that kind of attention more than it ever has during his seventy years of captivity. He's fairly sure it's Steve's fault. Somehow.

Eyelids drift closed for a moment to savor the memory of the man's warm mouth, the pink of his lips stretched around the Asset's dick as his cheeks hollow with each sucking motion. The tip of the Asset's tongue appears in the corner of his mouth. Machines don't feel want. He feels want, therefore, he is not a machine. He is the broken bits of a man Department X shattered into pieces over seven decades. He is the Asset. He is Microsoft 1.0. He is Microsoft 3.0. He is a widow, a lover, a soldier, and a victim. He is a survivor.

A soft breath slithers between his lips, and he thumbs open the button of his jeans—jeans and not combat trousers—to unzip them one link at a time. Slipping his straining cock out through the flap in his boxers brings relief from the cramped confines inside his pants. He licks his palm to add moisture and starts sliding that hand up and down his shaft, curling his hand around the fleshy mushroom cap with every up-stroke.

Something draws his attention out the driver side window to look at an older woman in the pick-up creeping along beside him. Her eyes bug out when she notices what he's doing. Their glances meet briefly. He offers a sassy smirk and moves his chin once in her direction without pausing the work of his hand around his flesh. Because he's a man. Men are allowed to jack off in their cars while cruising the highway at a whopping twenty miles an hour.

Steve's mouth was brilliant, but he can't stop thinking about what his lover offered, something about a tongue in his ass that makes the Asset's hips snap forward to fuck himself into the tight circle of his fist. Eyelids droop again briefly to imagine what that would feel like. All he has left of Steve is his imagination, Steve, whom he abandoned in Broken Bow for his lover's safety. Steve will probably never forgive him for taking the decision out of Steve's hands, because that twerp has an unflaggingly gigantic opinion about autonomy and self-determination.

So believing that he'll never see Steve again, he allows his head to tilt back against the headrest to imagine what their life together may have been like. A place in Brooklyn, just a two-bedroom loft space with big windows to allow the sun to pour in over an artist nook where Steve will spend hours painting while Bucky gets a normal job to help make the rent. Jamie will live in the second bedroom until she gets a full ride scholarship to NYU where she will study biological sciences on her way toward becoming a famous oceanographer. Gives Stevie and him lots of time alone.

He catches a bead of pre-ejaculate on the slit and smears it down around the shaft.

He'll come home after work to that delicate, beautiful body swaying with the beat of some exotic music while his lover holds a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other. Barefoot. Definitely barefoot. With a pair of thin sweats that drape beautifully around his shapely ass. The sun will stream in through the windows and turn the sweats nearly transparent, so he can see the ghost of his lover's body through the golden glow around him. God, Steve's body is delicate and beautiful.

His breath picks up as he feels a surge of lust dance down his spine into his pelvis.

Steve will offer to stop painting and make them dinner. He'll refuse while leaning against the kitchen island with the heel of his palm pressing into a half-chub. Just watching this second chance to have his soul mate be consumed by the Moroccan drums pouring from the speakers.

No, he's making dinner for his Stevie. Something simple like pasta and marinara where they'll eat at a little dining table—no, not four chairs; just three chairs—next to the big windows so they can look out over their city. Reverse the sun so it's still pouring in through the windows. There. Perfect. The golden, afternoon sunshine goes perfectly with his lover's hair. 

Steve will laugh over whatever silly joke Bucky's heard at the shop that day. _Why did the picture go to jail? Because it was framed. What did one wall to say to the other wall? I'll meet you at the corner. What did Cinderella say when her photos didn't show up? Some day my prints will come._ They might play footsies under the table. Eventually, Steve's feet—still bare—will stretch across and settle between his legs, toes pressing into the erection he's been sporting since he came home. Fuck the dishes. They'll clean up later.

The Asset strains into his fist. His vision blurs a little, and he has to brake harder than anticipated to avoid colliding with the rear end of a tractor trailer. His cock aches for release, the head turning dusky and livid with the need to orgasm.

Bucky will sweep Steve off his feet to carry the man into their bedroom. Industrial. Exposed beams and brickwork. Ten foot ceilings so the Asset won't feel trapped. Somehow, they'll get naked. He's too impatient for them to strip each other slowly, so they'll just be naked when Steve presses him into the mattress on his stomach, when Steve spreads his cheeks, when Steve's tongue flutters against his hole and pushes through the tight ring--

Orgasm washes over him like the breaking crest of a wave. He arcs his hips hard into his hand and damn near breaks the steering wheel with the clench of his metal fist. Hot come paints the underside of the dashboard, warms his hand, splatters onto his boots and the floorboard as the tension snaps. The thunder of his heart is like music inside the otherwise quiet vehicle.

He hasn't even come down from the high yet before traffic finally dissolves, allowing him to pick up speed as he haphazardly stuffs his softening dick back into his pants. The old lady in the pick-up next to his car is studiously looking forward instead of at him, but he can just make out the tint of burning cheeks. The Asset grins when she does glance over.

Because he's a person, and apparently the Bucky person has always been a sassy little shit who jerks off twenty more times in the car between Huntington and Portland, Oregon. By the time he parks in the lot of a Budget Inn just off River Road, the car reeks of sex and the protein shakes he's been guzzling like beer. In short, his car smells like a frat house.

Getting a room takes up a miniscule amount of time, leaving him far too much to dwell on giving up Steve and the purpose of being back in Oregon. After a while, he gets frustrated with sitting around the room and leaves, lets his feet go where they wanted as his mind slips into a lower gear. When he does become aware of his surroundings again, he's not entirely surprised to find himself outside the burned out wreckage that had once been Department X's base of operations in Oregon.

The old pharmacy store is still cordoned off from the main street by police tape, the shell of a building stained black with soot from the hot blaze. The Asset feels a stab of longing he previously thought Steve had burned out of him. Not true. Part of him still longs for the Chair, for Home, for an escape from the malfunction. Maybe that part of him always will.

He ducks around the back of the building, moves under the police tape, and jams his fingers behind the breaker box to pull it away from the wall. A thumb scanner remains there and accepts the fingerprint of his flesh palm. Something beeps. A light turns green, and a section of the floor opens to reveal a set of stairs that remained untouched by the fire.

With trepidation, he moves down them until arriving at a heavy blast door. The round port accepts his retinal scan, and the blast door opens. He moves down another flight of stairs but doesn't have the access codes to get through the last door, less reinforced than the upper door, so he rips it from its hinges with the metal arm to expose the large control room.

A wave of reek hits his nostrils like a physical force. He takes a step back, brings the flesh hand up to cover his mouth and nose like that will stop the cloying thickness of death permeating the air. It doesn't deter the Asset from entering to take in the bloody scene he steps into. Handler's rotting corpse still slumps near the chair Asset was handcuffed to for interrogation.

He crouches near the body, uses his metal arm to disrupt its position until it rolls onto its back with a sickening wet noise. A cloud of flies disperses into the air. Maggots writhe and spill to the floor from empty eye sockets and a mouth whose lips have pulled back to reveal white teeth. Skin has marbled a putrid shade of red and brown. The pool of bodily fluids that have leaked from the corpse is mostly dry but gives off such a pungent odor he nearly gives ground to it.

Handler's jaw has been crushed. There are spiderwebs of fractures fanning around his eye socket. The Asset looks down at his metal thumb.

_“I am James Barnes!” he screams, blood from having bitten his lip running hot across his lips and down his chin._

_Handler's fist connects with the Asset's jaw._

_A tooth loosens. Pain radiates up from his jaw. Something snaps in his mind. Bucky nearly breaks his own damn wrist while snapping the chain of the restraint on his flesh arm while the metal one tries to recover from the electrical shocks. He lashes out, fist striking Handler's jaw hard enough the man's stunned. Other agents and technicians abandon their positions to aide Handler._

_Bucky's metal arm finally comes back online, sending sensory information into his brain as it pulses back to life. He breaks the restraints holding it immobile and comes off the chair with a snarl. Because he is an animal. A feral beast. A dog that's been kicked one too many times. A bit of broken glass trapped inside a fleshy exterior ready to feel the hot burn of an incinerator that will melt the broken bits back into a new whole._

_Spinning around an oncoming agent, he grabs the man by his head and snaps it sideways. The sickening crunch of bone rasps the atmosphere, and he has moments to take the man's firearm from his holster to turn it upon the other people crammed inside the safe house. Three go down with blown out kneecaps. One takes a blast straight to the face._

_Naked, Bucky revels in the feeling of their blood against his naked skin. Every splatter is a mere drop in the bucket of the blood they've taken from him, the blood they've forced him to take. Only when every living soul has been disabled does he go back to Handler._

_Something new. Not Bucky. Not the Asset. Some hybrid of Microsoft 1.0's autonomy and the Asset's vicious emptiness takes him into a crouch next to Handler, who is gasping and gurgling around the shattered jaw bone. The man's eyes are wild as they dart around the room looking for help._

_“I am not your attack dog. I was a man once. You took that from me.”_

_Vicious. Animalistic. Ferocious wildness. His metal thumb presses against Handler's eye._

_“You took that from me. I won't rest until everything you represent has been burned to the ground.”_

_More pressure. The give of the soft, delicate eyeball against the killing weapon they attached to him._

_“Department X will burn. The KGB will burn.”_

_A gentle pop happens—the burst of a cherry tomato in the mouth—when the eye can't withstand the growing pressure. Handler screams. The other agents he left alive try to drag themselves toward the exit. For now, he lets them go. For now, he focuses on Handler's agony knowing that it's not even an ounce compared to the pain they've caused James Buchanan Barnes over the decades. Finally, his thumb drives into the soft brain, leaving fractures spider-webbing the delicate bones of the face._

_He rises, an avenging archangel._

_The next agent gives into his terror and releases his bladder and bowels before the Asset even arrives._

Gasping, the Asset stumbles to his feet and nearly falls over another corpse when the memory releases its grip and leaves understanding in its wake. He did this. The fire. The malfunction that made him flee his handlers. Everything. They were planning on selling him to Hydra. That was why Hydra had the nanotechnology. That was why he chased them through the paint factory.

He did this.

Eventually, his gaze catches on a bulky contraption in the corner of the room. It stands upright, a monstrosity that calls to his bones in a way that has become instinct. The Asset approaches. Fingertips trace the glass window allowing viewers to look into the interior of the machine. His bones become brittle. The crackle of frost eats away at his better sense, and he leans his forehead against the glass. A breath sigh escapes. He raises a palm to press the warmth of his body against black, block letters that label it CC 309.

The ice.

Home.

He wants to go home where nothing hurts and there are no confusing choices to make.

But going home means never seeing Stevie again. Going home means there will be no more greasy cheeseburgers or peanut butter and chocolate in an orange wrapper made for kings. It means he'll never feel Stevie pushing the breath from his body while sliding inside him.

Home.

Stevie.

His fingers linger over CC 309. Said fingers are the last thing that touch his home before he turns away from his past and toward his future. And if there are tears in his eyes, he doesn't acknowledge them.

The Asset—Bucky. The Bucky Asset? He turns in a circle to take in the destruction, the death, surrounding him. Agents from the KGB are chasing him and saying the words in an attempt to reactivate his programming, programming that he somehow found a way to break. He doesn't want to go home after all. Doesn't want the chair. Doesn't want cold storage. The malfunction? All this time, the malfunction was Microsoft 1.0 trying to reassert its dominance over the Asset.

Bucky releases a sob, claps a hand over his mouth to cover the blinding smile that brings sunshine warming his insides. He broke free of their control. He broke free because he's a survivor, because he's powerful, because despite everything they did to him over seventy years, they couldn't kill him, could only force him deep inside his body to go into hiding.

“I'm free,” he whispers past the relieved sobs and tears.

Or at least he will be free if he can find the rest of the programming codes and disable them, permanently prevent the codes from ever allowing Bucky to be sent back under so the Asset can take over again. Shoulders straightening, he turns and emerges from the underground safe house back into the cold nightfall of winter.

That night, he buys himself beef enchiladas from a Mexican joint, a six pack of PBR, and a smartphone with internet access and holes himself up inside his hotel room to research the M. Graham paint factory. There is frustratingly little to go on, just a PO Box in West Linn, Oregon and a couple of blogs from artists who've visited the site but mention nothing about the factory's location. Normally, this is where the Asset would roam the city looking for clues as to its location or surveil the location of the post office and follow the person who picked up the mail back to the location.

Instead, he pulls a Steve Roberts and calls the phone number to ask about doing a factory tour. He's an artist who's gearing up for a show and would like to know more about where and how his paints are created. The person on the phone is pleasant and sets up an appointment for the following day before giving him directions to the site. Stevie would be proud of him.

[“Bucky, you gotta tell your ma. She's gonna be over the moon,” exclaims Steve. “Nah, it was just a silly science test.” Wide, excited blue eyes framed by Steve's prepubescent face. A small body bouncing on the balls of his feet. “There ain't nothing silly 'bout it, Buck. You got first place. All the sisters is saying how smart you are. I'm so proud of you. Don't know why you can't be proud of yourself.” “Being smart ain't gonna put food on the table, Stevie. Ma lost her job. Pa's not getting as many hours at the factory. I'm thinkin' about quitting school and getting a job down at the grocery or something to help make ends meet.” “But Buck, you could really be somebody. You could be a lawyer or a banker or somethin'.” “Ah, Stevie. People from our neighborhood ain't got no chance going to the big schools. We're Irish. Nobody's gonna let no Irish Catholic be anybody special.” Sadness. A dock job or factory job's the best he can do for his family.]

The enchiladas settle well. He considers throwing out the remaining protein bars and shakes but decides against wasting food like that. He's gonna need to access another KGB account to take out more money and continue funding his little adventure soon. That night, Bucky sleeps well.


	11. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go pear-shaped; they always go pear-shaped.

Sam gives him a look from the corner of his eye, not for the first time.

“Stop looking at me like that. He's gonna be here,” reassures Steve.

They're sitting out on the balcony of a two story home in West Linn that overlooks a small factory across the road. M. Graham Paints makes it home in an unassuming neighborhood of Portland inside a miniscule building where a small team of employees, headed up by Art Graham, espouses quality over quantity. It hardly looks like the place where a death match between Hydra and the KGB's most prized asset went toe to toe. Hydra lost. Surprising no one. Well, at least not Steve, but he's seen the Winter Soldier in action and might be just a little biased by his unwavering pride in Bucky Barnes.

[Steve Rogers gets fired again. Not an uncommon occurrence. Most factory jobs, his body just can't handle the punishment of a ten hour shift. Joints ache. Chemicals upset his asthma. Doesn't matter that he drags himself in half-dead with the flu to fill his shift. Only matters that he's fired again. Trudges home through the rain with his weekly wages. It's October. Chill's settling in his bones. A cough lights his chest on fire. Gonna need more medicated cigarettes soon. 'Stead of heading to the pharmacy to pick some up, he goes home. Bucky's still out working his shift at the docks. Gives Steve time to loosen the floorboard under his bed. Pulls out a tin box full of money. Mostly, it's full of five spots from selling his ass down by the docks. Guys like delicate little fairies. He counts the money. Two hundred twenty-five bucks. He unfolds the admissions letter. _“Dear Mister James Barnes, We are pleased to inform you that your admission application has been accepted, and you have been successfully enrolled into the science department for the spring term beginning January 14, 1942. You have been assigned Dr. Horace Martin as you adviser. Dr. Martin will help you to enroll in classes. Please make all tuition payments to the bursar by the start of the spring semester. We look forward to fulfilling your educational goals.”_ Twenty-five dollars to go. That November, Bucky gets drafted. By January 14, 1942, he's being shipped out to Europe to fight in WW2, and Steve has agreed to take part in Project Rebirth. The admissions letter and stash of money is found fifty years later by a sixteen year old girl after the building is converted into a duplex. She sells the letter to a Howling Commando archive and uses that along with the old money to buy her mother a new dryer for Mother's Day.]

Steve gasps and rocks back in the camp chair, attracting another concerned glance from Captain America. He waves off the hand reaching toward him. “'M fine. Just had a Steve Rogers moment.”

“I still don't understand that, you know. You claim you have memories from his life?”

Steve responds with a nod.

“How's that even possible?”

Tony opens the sliding door and joins them on the balcony with fresh cups of hot coffee. “Actually, I have a theory about that.” Stark rolls his eyes and corrects himself. “Bruce has a theory about that. Nobody has a comprehensive list of side effects from the serum. Bruce went through old records, and your egg and sperm donors lived in an apartment on the outskirts of the DC business district.”

“And that means what?” asks Steve.

“Could be some of the captains' blood got into the city's drinking water. I know. It's far-fetched, but it's the best we've got so far. Could just as easily be you've got some Buddha-like reincarnation shit going on. Would have pegged Steve Rogers for reaching enlightenment, though.”

Steve focuses his attention on the factory for a while so he can mull over Banner's hypothesis. Chances are good, he will never have any real answers. Maybe he doesn't even need real answers, because his love for Bucky Barnes has very little to do with the fact he's experiencing memories of a past life. The man is incredible in his own right and doesn't need to rely on being the charismatic charmer from the nineteen thirties and forties to be appreciated.

“Are you really going to move this guy into your apartment with Jamie?” Sam asks.

The coffee warms Steve's chest considerably, and he doesn't respond at first. When he does, his words are measured. “Maybe he's dangerous in certain situations. Maybe he's more volatile than normal people. God knows anyone would be after what he's been through, but after the initial kidnapping, he's never given me one single reason to be afraid of him.”

“Maybe not you, but man, you're talking about a fifteen year old girl. I haven't spent much time with Jamie, but she's a bright girl. You think having her around a veteran who's suffered the kind of extremes Barnes has suffered is going to be good for either of them? She's a teenager. If she back-talks him, is he going to react before he considers his strength?”

Despite not wanting to, he has to admit Sam's point. Bucky being comfortable around him won't automatically mean the man is comfortable around Jamie. Giving up his sister in order to keep Bucky in his home isn't an option. There's no contest there. 

“I won't see him put in a cage.”

“No one's suggesting that, Steve,” Sam replies.

Tony interrupts to say, “I'm suggesting that. Winter Shaker could be seriously dangerous.”

The comment gets a cross look from Steve. “If you throw him in a cage, he's gonna get worse instead of better. This man deserves our patience and kindness, not a steel box.”

“Let's just consider all our options, options that don't include putting him in the same household as an underage girl who doesn't have the ability to make adult decisions like that. I know you want to believe in him, but maybe he's not the kind of guy you save. Maybe he's the kind of guy you stop.”

“No,” Steve snaps and settles a nuclear warhead glare on Sam's head. “You don't get to decide that, and if you even try to use that shield as a weapon on him, you won't like the man I become.”

Tony opens his mouth.

“And you.” He rounds on Tony. “Stop Harry Houdini from cutting Anna Pavlova's shoulders from her torso.” A hot glare fixates on the man's goatee to reiterate his meaning. “Wolverines aren't that big either. You don't want to see me turn into five feet four inches of hissing wolverine.”

Both men present their hands at shoulder height, palms outward.

“What about transitioning him to a group home where the VA can help keep an eye on him. Once he's integrated in modern society and we know he's not a danger to himself or anyone else, we can transition him into living in your apartment building. That sound like a fair compromise?”

A soft huff escapes Steve. “I think people have spent enough time making decisions for him.”

“Steve--”

He cuts Sam off with a raised hand and sits forward in a lawn chair. The man who skulks around the corner of a brick building that's seen better days wears dark jeans and a russet hoodie, hood pulled up against the winter chill. A pair of scuffed sneakers adorn his feet, not his usual combat boots or the stylish suede boots he sometimes wears, just running shoes that make James Barnes look like every other twenty-something-year-old in the city.

Bucky pauses at the corner of the building to check his surroundings, glance moving across the open lot overgrown with weeds and amidst the surrounding shops. He must see something that spooks him, as a hand moves to a pocket to disappear inside. The movement doesn't produce a weapon.

Sam mutters something about the outline of a gun. Tony pinpoints three other weapons on the man's body, and both men glance toward Steve with accusatory expressions.

“What? I said he wasn't a danger, not that he wouldn't be armed to the teeth.”

“Widow, Hawkeye, prepare to move in.”

“No. No, you can't startle him like that.”

Sam looks alarmed when he exchanges a glance with Iron Man.

Tony continues into the comm device, “All S.H.I.E.L.D operatives, prepare for containment protocols. Take your cue from Black Widow and Hawkeye. Subject is to be considered armed and dangerous. Prepare armored transport for returning him to New York.”

“You promised,” Steve gasps.

“Tony, we gave our word,” insists Sam.

“You don't know what he's capable of. I do. Intimately. Sorry, Kid.”

A full second passes before he realizes that Tony Stark has lied to him in order to gain his cooperation, that he's led the Avengers right to Bucky, and he only has a few seconds to react before the man is taken into custody so Mister Stark can make him disappear. An uncomfortable twist of his guts urges him to intervene. The part of him that is Steve Rogers sets him in motion.

All one hundred ten pounds of rail thin Steve Roberts rams into Tony's gut, the other man exhaling a breathless grunt as he topples backward over the balcony railing. Mere seconds later, his body impacts with a dull thud against the roof of a storage shed just below their position. Two story fall onto a storage shed shouldn't be fatal. Right?

But Steve has zero time to regret his action with Sam Wilson right beside him. Even as he regains his balance and whirls away from the scene of his crime, he screeches, “Bucky, run!”

Sam reaches for Steve.

Steve slides beneath the outstretched arm and rolls his body over the railing in a fluid motion his muscles shouldn't be familiar with but are. Grabbing the floor of the balcony as he falls allows him to shorten the distance to the ground so that when he lands, he only needs to absorb the impact by allowing himself to crumple into a crouch. He's up again within a heartbeat and tearing toward the fenced yard and its decorative hedges.

Captain America shouts and chases him. 

Tony is unusually quiet; maybe the fall broke his back after all. 

Steve's racing full tilt toward the man he loves. 

Bucky's got a gun trained in their direction when Steve breaks through the hedges bordering the property and scrambles over a chain link fence. The second he sets one foot off the curb and onto the main road, a slug scatters chunks of asphalt by his feet.

“Take cover,” Bucky orders in his gruff, smoke and whiskey voice.

Reflexes don't kick in fast enough. A bullet whizzes past Steve's face so close it opens a line of blood across his cheek before burying in the dirt behind him. Next thing he knows, two hundred pounds of pissed off Winter Soldier are on top of him, snarling, and firing off two shots in the direction their attackers have been shooting from: high up in the brick building in whose shadow Bucky took cover.

“S-sorry. M-my fault. T-tony lied. Widow and Hawkeye are s-supposed to take you into custody.”

“Not now.”

“But--”

“Apologize later, Stevie-doll.”

As though to prove Bucky's impatience, another bullet ricochets off a metal post on the fence behind them and leaves a hole in Bucky's sweatshirt. Steve finds himself pushed backward against the hedges where he can do nothing but hover while the main street turns into a wild west shoot-out between the Cowboys and the Earps at the O.K. Corral.

Black Widow emerges from a building down the street, but she isn't targeting their position. Instead, she's aiming toward an upper floor of the brick building. Moments later, an arrow zips past from atop the paint factory, breaking through an intact window. A body falls through said window to impact with a sickening thud on the pavement. A pool of blood blooms around the victim.

“Hydra.”

“We've gotta get out of here before Iron Man suits up,” Steve gasps past an oncoming asthma attack.

“What's his status?”

“I don't know; I pushed him off a balcony. His status is probably pissed off.”

The man he's absolutely gone for takes his eyes off combat to look back with a raised brow and a surprised smile, an expression over which Steve shrugs. It seemed like the thing to do at the time. Like wandering around pushing superheroes off balconies is an every day occurrence. Who wouldn't want to shove Tony Stark off a balcony?

Someone shouts from overhead.

Steve cranes his neck to look up through the canopy of trees where he sees a flash of red, white, and blue that indicates Captain America is in the skies. That means they should probably get moving. He twists his fingers in the back of Bucky's hoodie to hang onto him so they won't get separated.

“On my mark.”

That mark sends the larger man surging upright and racing across the open street, not away from the fighting but toward the paint factory. He ducks around the corner of the brick building for cover where he orders Steve to use his inhaler. Because Bucky Barnes can multitask like that.

Only then does Steve realize just how badly he's wheezing, at which point, he shoves himself in behind the other man in order to fumble with his rescue inhaler. Two puffs help keep his lungs open.

Something rattles on the street behind him. Without considering the action, his other hand unerringly finds the sidearm holstered to his companion's ankle beneath the heavy denim fabric. Steve produces it, turns, and leaves a smoking hole between the eyes of a Hydra agent sneaking up behind them. Silently, he thanks his predecessor for helping guide his actions, as he's under no delusions that he would have made that shot were it not for Steve Rogers' genetic material.

Unease shivers down his spine after a few more wild shots come precariously close to shredding them. He puts his back to Bucky's and only glances around once when the man curses, where he sees two Hydra agents now dead next to the Widow. Her face goes funny as she exchanges a momentary glance with Bucky. For a second, he swears the two recognize each other.

They're on the move moments later with Bucky instructing him to stay low and move fast. He follows orders well enough while they race together across the overgrown lot and don't stop moving until Barnes is shooting the lock on the back door of the paint factory to allow them inside. Seconds later, Captain America comes down on the building's roof, and outside, he can hear the sound of Iron Man finally arriving on scene to engage the Hydra assets.

Darkness envelops them inside the factory. It's cool and smells of chemicals. Steve automatically knows to head toward a corner where he can lodge himself with Bucky's sidearm while his companion flips open the on-board computer so it can start taking readings. The factory is too quiet, the silence disrupted only by the dull sounds of gunfire outside.

Before anything can come of driving all the way across the country, another nest of Hydra agents reveal themselves. Three come pouring out of the back office. Three more emerge from various rooms flanking the main factory floor. Another two show themselves as they round machinery.

“Longing.”

“No. Fuck. No.” Bucky clutches his ears.

“Rusted.”

“Shut up!”

“Furnace.”

Bucky goes wild.

“Daybreak.”

His fist connects with the nearest agent, snapping the man's neck backward.

“Seventeen.”

He struggles like a cornered bobcat. His hair flies wildly around shoulders that twist and ripple that sends fists into guts, into faces, into kidneys.

“Malignant.”

Steve can't stand it anymore and brings the gun up to start shooting. “Stop it! You're hurting him!”

“Eight.”

Bucky's shoulders become less tense.

“King.”

“Those aren't the words,” breathes Bucky before his expression turns predatory. “Those aren't the goddamned words, you stupid shit-gobbler!”

Steve finds himself flushed from his corner by hostiles, so he jumps up onto a conveyor belt to get some additional height and manages to shoot one of his pursuers in the hand. Not a particularly good shot, but it's enough to make the man drop his weapon. That gives Steve a bit of breathing room, and he scrambles up onto a higher part of the machine from whence he can see most of the factory floor.

The Asset is efficient. The Asset is graceful. The Asset moves around the factory targeting and annihilating the cockroach infestation, and when it becomes apparent there's no hope for victory, the remaining agents beat-feet toward the exits. They don't make it. There is no escape from the avenging angel sent to burn them to the ground.

When silence comes, it sounds hollow. It sounds heavy, laden with intensity and pregnant with chaos. Into the silence comes a soft beep from Bucky's prosthetic to signal the computer has analyzed and downloaded any present nano-processors.

Steve doesn't dare think about coming down from atop his perch, not when his knees have started knocking together with the sudden absence of adrenaline. He's never been so exhausted “Buck, you're not gonna believe this, but I think I'm stuck.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh, an unusual sound post-combat when he seems to be at his most detached. The man's eyes are sharp and focused, though, when he approaches and helps Steve back to the factory floor. Just a second later, Steve finds himself crushed against the man's chest.

“We have to get out of here while the Avengers are occupied,” Steve rasps.

Their fingers lace together while running for a back door that won't take them outside into the middle of a gunfight. Captain America awaits on the other side. Bucky goes stiff and brings his gun even with the man's face despite Steve's attempts to get him to lower the weapon.

“Sam, don't do this. Please.” He insinuates himself between the two fighters. “You know this is wrong. Taking him into custody and throwing him into a prison cell isn't carrying out justice; it's taking revenge against the KGB. They won't care that he was brainwashed and coerced. They won't even understand or know how to try a case like this.”

A muscle in Sam's jaw clenches, but he finally says, “If you hurt him, you'll have me to contend with. Steve, you need anything, you let me know. Now get out of here before Tony gets done putting the hurt on Hydra. I'll look after Jamie.”

Steve can't express his gratitude. There isn't time, so he hurries past into the afternoon sunshine.

***

They steal another car in Portland from a hospital parking lot and exchange plates with another vehicle in Eugene while heading south toward California. Staying at a hotel is too risky. Bucky wants to put as many miles between them and the Avengers as he possibly can, so he drives through the night while Steve falls into a fitful sleep in the passenger seat. At least this car has more room than the last, so he's able to reach over and put the other man's seat back until he's lying a little more comfortably.

Part of him is euphoric; Steve came for him. Another part of him wants to head-slap the kid for climbing right back into the grill when Bucky had so kindly taken him off the menu. Mostly, though, he's just plain pissed off that the Avengers broke their word—no, that Tony Stark broke his word—to Steve, who had trusted them as the only institution that would do the right thing. He could have spared his lover that pain. No way did Tony Stark ever let him live a normal life, not when the KGB had forced him to murder the man's parents.

Interstate 5 splits off at Sacramento into I 505 and then into I 80 heading toward San Francisco. He doesn't have a solid plan until they're on the outskirts of the city, at which point, he decides the safest thing to do is ditch the car and steal a yacht to take them into the Pacific. Steve hates the idea and lectures Bucky while they're having coffee and donuts on the hood of the SUV about stealing people's property. Doesn't matter if the people they're stealing from are rich enough to afford another yacht. What matters is that stealing a car to get around is a necessity, but stealing a boat is excessive.

Bucky wants to do it anyway, but the look of disapproval in his lover's face is enough to make him give up Operation Grand Theft Yacht. Reluctantly. And displaying all the characteristics of a sore loser. The next morning, he leaves Steve holed up in a tiny motel room, buys a sharp suit at a thrift store, and dresses in the bathroom of a restaurant. He isn't satisfied until he's knotted the tie three times.

From there, he goes into a Well's Fargo branch on Montgomery Street to make a withdrawal of fifteen hundred dollars from a KGB-owned account. The teller blushes at his broad smile and easy words that compliment how much the color of her blouse brings her eyes out. Within moments, she allows him to see a branch manager where he makes arrangements for a large-dollar purchase and the withdrawal of the remainder of the account in currency. Of course, he understands they'll need to report the transaction to the government. He doesn't want them to do anything that will get them into trouble. Yes, it's fine if two bank guards are present to escort him to his vehicle when he has the money in hand. No problem that he'll need to wait seven days in order for the funds to be ready.

Steve's still catching up on sleep, so when he returns with a laptop and portable hot spot, he's able to spend a good two hours searching websites until he finds just what he wants and contacts the seller to arrange for a tour the following day. His lover rouses just as he's stowed the laptop and gotten up to reheat some burgers and onion rings he picked up on the way back.

Steve smacks his lips. He looks adorable with his eyes partially lidded and his hair sticking up in all directions. He accidentally forgets and uses the hand with the cast on it to brush bangs from his face and winds up bopping himself on the nose with it. He looks at the cast like it's offended him.

“What time's it?” he asks in a sleep-slurred voice.

“Early afternoon.”

A plate of food in each hand, he knee-walks onto the bed to situate his lover's plate nearby. “Eat. You must be hungry.”

The other man perks up a little at the smell of food but practically beams upon noticing the plate Bucky has for himself. He doesn't speak again until after he's impersonated a chipmunk by stuffing bites of hamburger into his cheek pouches. “This doesn't mean I've forgiven you for leaving me behind.”

“Doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you for not taking the out I gave you and going back to your life.”

“'S not my life anymore, pal. There's no going back, not when I'm stuck on you.”

A breath pulls sharply into Bucky, and the words inspire him to intercept Steve's lips with his own before his lover can stuff an onion ring in it. Steve tastes like hamburger and onions and future and hope, a unique flavor that rasps a moan up from his lungs. He threads fingers into soft, blond hair.

Next thing he knows, they're tumbling across the bed in a flurry of kisses and hair, consumed by the butter-soft brush of Steve's tongue licking into his mouth. The food is forgotten. Actually, he hopes it doesn't wind up smeared across the bed they have to sleep in for the next seven days.

“I wanna suck your cock.”

The breathy sound makes him squeak and nod with more enthusiasm than he probably should have allowed for. After all, one of these days, he wants to repay the favor and get his own mouth on Steve, but right now, all he can think about is being enveloped in that beautiful heat and wet. Also? Who turns down a blowjob? So Bucky nods again before getting to work at popping open the button of his slacks in order to push them down his hips.

Steve looks so eager. The man bites his plump bottom lip, and when it slips free of his teeth, it's left shiny with saliva and kiss-pink. “I'm gonna make you feel so good you won't ever think about letting another man put his mouth on your dick, babydoll. Gonna make you so hungry for it, you'll pop boners in the grocery store thinking 'bout me going down on you.”

He can only nod dumbly. The mouth on this kid.

Fingers white-knuckle the bedspread the second his lover's mouth envelops him. Steve sucks so hard it's almost painful, so hard that when he lifts away from Bucky's dick, it audibly pops from his suction and makes Bucky bridge his back off the bed with a throaty whimper. His eyes squeeze closed to better concentrate on the tiny kitten licks against his slit and across the sensitive underside of the head only to fly open again moments later to take in the sight of Steve Roberts looking utterly debauched with high color in his cheeks and red lips stretched around the girth of his penis.

“That feel good, babydoll?”

His lover is speaking words, words his brain can't translate. “Don't ask me to brain when you've sucked all the blood into my dick, Stevie.”

The other man snickers, offers up a completely innocent look, and licks a wide stripe up the underside of Bucky's dick instead of verbally responding.

“Yeah, yeah. Better get some Rust Be Gone to polish up that halo, pal. Ain't nothing innocent 'bout you having my dick in your mouth.”

“On the contrary. Sucking your dick is more innocent than, say, having my tongue in your ass.”

Bucky can't swallow his groan. “Fucking shit. The mouth on you.”

Anything he may have added is overshadowed by a yelp when Steve sucks one of his balls into the heat of his mouth and tugs. His yelp ends in a fucked-out warbling sound, and he releases the bedspread to curl fingers into that head of blond hair between his legs. He carefully avoids thinking about how his Stevie got so good with that damn mouth.

Both balls suddenly become enveloped in his lover's hand where he massages them and offers a gentle tug of pressure that lights up Bucky's pleasure centers. Another few curses tumble out, and he wiggles his hips to make his erection bounce against the man's cheek in an effort to get it some more attention. Steve obliges eagerly.

There's no way to pinpoint the moment his brain finally disengages to descend into a haze of sensation. All he knows is that his nerves are exploding like fireworks up his spine and into his brain. He can hardly catch his breath, can hardly look at the stunning display between his legs when looking would tip him over the edge. Wet and heat bob up and down his shaft. A tongue presses against the underside or darts against a slit oozing precome. Against the back of his eyelids, he sees in reds and whites and vibrant blues, particles bursting with color and base, primordial need.

“Shit. Stevie, I'm gonna come.”

“S'okay, babydoll. I got you.”

“No.” He pushes gently at the man's head to try to dislodge him. “Wanna come with you inside me.”

“Damn sure not gonna say no to that.”

Bucky scrambles off the bed and roots through his bag to find the lube and a condom, both of which, he chucks at his lover. “On your back. I wanna ride you.”

Crawling back in bed, he starts by kissing a path up from Steve's ankle, nipping at the side of his knee, his inner thigh, and pausing to help roll the condom on with his mouth. Finally, he gets said mouth on his lover in order to bob his head a few times, drawing a soft groan from the other man. He spreads a bit of slick over the condom and positions himself.

Head thrown back and neck extended, he swallows a soft groan when the mushroom cap presses against his tight hole. A gentle burn sings throughout his pelvic cradle, makes his cock twitch.

“Need me to put some lube in you?”

He nods.

Steve slicks up a finger and reaches behind his balls to press inside up to the second knuckle where he works the digit in gentle pulses to help relax him. While he's doing that, Steve mouths along his pectoral muscle until he can suck a nipple.

That's all it takes to have Bucky easing his lover's prick into his body. The tight heat, the sense of being stretched to capacity, the warm fullness burning through his thighs and pelvis brings pleasure washing over him like a gentle wave. His body eases into the sensations until his lover's hardness bottoms out inside him, at which point, he sighs with relief and circles his hips gently.

“Still wanna get my tongue in your ass soon.”

Laughter bubbles into the air. “What is your obsession with your tongue and my ass, pal?”

“You kidding? Have you ever felt your ass? 'S like humping the Sistine Chapel.”

Bucky giggles, just flat out giggles and collapses forward to rest their foreheads together. “Christ, I love your mouth.” To prove his assertion, he kisses Steve, slots their mouths together so they can breathe as one, to tease his lover with the barest touches.

There's no rush to move anymore. His desire has banked to a gentle warmth infusing his body, and he enjoys sitting astride the man and being filled up by the rigidness of his cock. This is as close as two bodies can be when climbing into Steve's pores just isn't an option. If he could freeze this moment for the rest of his life, it would be spent in a state of euphoria. He could become lost in Steve Roberts.

“Gonna need you to move soon. Being on the edge like this is getting kind of painful.”

The first few pulses almost hurt, skate along the knife-edge between discomfort and pleasure, but as he leans forward to brace himself with his elbows on either side of Steve's head, all discomfort bleeds into a tingling of well-used muscles. He can't catch his breath. He can't tell where his body ends and Steve's begins. He can't think beyond the rising tension pulling taut like a rubber band.

He presses his mouth into the crown of Steve's head, unable to swallow a desperate moan as his lover snaps himself to piston that cock inside his body as he comes down to meet the other man's forward momentum. Meanwhile, his own cock is cradled between their bodies, a pool of precome allowing it to skim across Steve's velvet skin.

Time has no meaning. They're lost, cut adrift in a frenzied haze as tight as a snare drum until it ruptures, bursts in reds, whites, and blues as the tense heat in his thighs and groin snap. The tidal wave rushes up from his balls to paint their bodies in ribbons of cream and pearl.

The noise. He doesn't recognize the noise, the soft whine and heavy panting, the breathless whisper of priests singing vespers in the chantry, only it isn't priests anymore; it's Bucky. Bucky gives divine power to Steve's name like priest praying to his god. Voice hoarse, he sags onto his lover's chest.

Takes him a few minutes to figure out that Steve croons in his ear, that a hand rubs comforting circles against his back. Only then does he realize he whited out so badly that he can't even remember if Steve got off. He was so consumed in his own bliss he failed to be observant about his lover's pleasure, so he scrambles upright to frame the man's face.

“Shit. Stevie, I didn't-- Baby, did you come? Let me help you finish.”

“Wow, I really did suck all your brains into your dick, didn't I?” Steve looks sated and happy. “'S okay, babydoll. I came just from watching the way you unraveled for me.”

Like he can't take his lover's word for it, he eases the man's prick out of his body and finds the condom full of Steve's deposit. That allows relief to soften his tension, at which point, he removes said condom, ties it closed, and tosses it in the general direction of the trash can.

He stretches himself out next to the other man, grateful when Steve rolls into him to drape a slim thigh across Bucky's hips. “Mm. That was incredible.”

An arm curls around his lover's shoulders so he can trace patterns on the man's bare skin. “I'm sorry for leaving you in Nebraska but am more concerned that your first instinct was to call the Avengers.”

Some of the relaxation tightened. “What was I supposed to do? You tried to make a decision about my life for me. I know what I want out of life. No future I can imagine doesn't involve you.”

It's impossible to determine if that makes him feel good or not. On the one hand, he wants Steve in his future, too. On the other, having another life involved with the chaos that is his own means his lover and Jamie will be mixed up in all the awful things that could happen if the wrong people catch onto his existence. It's easier to run when he only has himself to worry about, but he pushes the dark thoughts away and hugs the man against his body.

“We have an appointment tomorrow to check out a yacht.”

Steve tenses.

“To buy, Kitten. Not to steal. Then we have to make a plan to rescue your sister from the Avengers.”

***

_“plan went 2 shit. stark tried 2 arrest Barnes. Steve and Barnes on the run.”_

Seeing America's text pop up in the middle of AP Statistics means Jamie's concentration goes right out the window, and she asks to go see the nurse for some Midol and a tampon. Mr. Grover turns funny shades of pink whenever the girls talk about their periods. He excuses her. She blows off the rest of the school day by sneaking out through a window, at which point, she plugs her earbuds in and fires up _30 Seconds To Mars._ It's the perfect angry music.

And boy is she angry.

By the time she walks back to the tower, she's champing at the bit to get a piece of Stark. He can't just disregard agreements with her brother whenever it suits him. Stark's the leader of the Avengers. His word is supposed to be trustworthy, but really there were so many red flags leading up to this moment. His constant inability to focus on any one thing at a time, his willingness to bend the rules whenever one of his projects hits a snag, not giving America a choice in having her powers suppressed. The man has a history of disregarding shit—she crosses herself again—whenever the mood strikes him.

Mostly, though, she is pissed that her imminent reunion with Stevie and introduction to her namesake hit a snag, and that is not cool. Clearly, Mister Stark is an only child, or he would understand Jamie's mounting desperation. It's made worse by the fact that Steve is also her guardian.

She finds Stark inside his armor room, the door of which swishes open according to the new clearance level her “mentor” wrote into her thumbprint files, and for a few heartbeats, she watches the tense lines of his body, soaks up the anger radiating off him like a heat mirage. A soft snarl precedes him hurling the helmet of his armor across the room. It hits with a resounding clang and bounces to the floor.

That tiny bit sympathy for whatever bullshit—she crosses herself—he's dealing with feels like a betrayal of her brother. She's spent numerous hours with this man absorbing his genius like a sponge. It builds a bond, right? Even though she hates his guts and intends to break his heart at the earliest opportunity. What? Blood is thicker than water. 

So there are two ways she can spin this to maintain her upper hand: righteous indignation or reluctantly sympathetic. She goes for a mixture of the two when she says, shoulder propped against the wall, “You were supposed to bring my brother home, Boo.”

Tony stiffens. He snuffles back a wet sound before turning to face her, dark eyes puffy and red. “Hey, Kid. Things didn't go as planned. Steve--” He pauses for a beat of silence. “I don't know how to tell you this, but he's been suborned by the terrorist. It's not uncommon. Barnes has a particular hold on him, you know. It makes him more susceptible to believing whatever the guy says.”

Jamie's teenaged mood swings throw her plan right out the window upon noticing the verklempt way he tightens his jaw. Someone award that man a doctorate of spin. “You're lying.” Jared Leto screams angrily from her subconscious _'come break me down, bury me bury me, I am finished with you.'_ “You're lying to me. I'm not a dumb kid. Don't treat me like one.”

Clearly, Iron Man suddenly isn't sure what to make of her. “You wouldn't understand.”

“I'm not a dumb kid,” she reiterates, hands fisted, eyes hurling daggers. “Stop baby-talking me and tell me the goddamned truth before I turn into a raging ball of Baba O'Riley all over your tower. You were supposed to bring my brother and his friend back here where they would be safe.”

“Look--” Tony looks like he's trying to find a way to swing the truth. It's the look he gets when he's working a puzzle in his brain. “Fuck, I need a drink.”

“Language!”

“You just--” He huffs a sigh. “He killed my parents, Kid. Barnes assassinated my parents. The plan was never to bring him in a free man. My dad died before I could--” Another razor-sharp silence. “For fu-fudge sakes, would you stop looking at me like I just kicked your puppy?”

Silence.

More silence.

Tony fidgets.

Crickets chirp.

Tumbling tumbleweeds tumble across a dirt road.

“That sucks,” she finally whispers. “No, that really sucks, and I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

“I don't want your pity.”

“Right, because it's become socially unacceptable for people to express their regret that someone they care about is in pain. I totally forgot. Right, grim-faced acceptance. Here's my stony gargoyle look after finding out you lost your parents, too.” She jutted her bottom jaw out and blanked her expression.

“Kid--”

“Can't talk. I'm a gargoyle. Gargoyles have no fee-fees.”

“What the fuck is a fee-fee?”

“Can't talk. I'm a gargoyle.” Seconds later, she added, “And language.”

The tiniest of chuckles lurches free of the man's dusty laugh-track, and he suddenly skulks over and hugs her, gathers her up against his body to squeeze the stuffing out of her. “Kid, how did you get so beautifully sarcastic?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Being hugged by Tony Stark feels strange, but she slings her arms around him.

After releasing her, he puts some distance between them. “Thing is, you don't know a lot about this guy. Even if what Steve claims is true, the guy could snap and hurt a lot of people. He should be hospitalized for his own safety and the safety of others. And Steve wants to move him in with you. He wants to expose you, his impressionable sister, to living with a man who hardly knows he's human.”

“That's not your decision to make, Boo.”

“It is, though. I'm the adult here. And after what happened with America...”

“America's not happy, you know.”

“Maybe not, but it's the only thing I can do to protect her, to protect the people who will be hurt if she's given free rein to use her powers without guidance. That's the thing about people like America and Barnes. Even if it's not their fault, they can still hurt a lot of bystanders. It's our job to protect the world from them, to protect them from themselves.”

Jamie swallowed heavily. “I thought the punishment came after the crime.”

“With powers like these, we can't afford to wait that long.”

This is the part that leaves her feeling like she swallows razor blades, the part where curtailing her natural inclinations in order to protect the inroads she has made into Tony's confidences brought with it the sensation of a concrete block resting on her chest. She imagines it's something like how Steve feels in the midst of an asthma attack. Seconds of silence drag by.

Finally, she says, “Maybe. Guess I never thought if that way before.” Then, eyes watery and sad, she looks him in the eye. “What can I do to help bring Stevie in safely?”

Hours later, she's curled up in her bed, hands tucked beneath a cheek, and staring out the bank of windows. Thing is, part of her is incredibly confused by these weeks spent learning from Tony. In a different situation, she could really admire him, and while her convictions about betraying him to save Steve and Barnes never waver, she does feel strangely bad. She's gotten to see a facet of Stark few people ever get to experience. The man isn't all bad. His desire to control people, however, is unacceptable. So Jamie quietly plots his doom.

The door swishes open.

She looks up from her perusal of the world outside to see America flounce in, drop a backpack on her bed, and flop over to kick her feet on top of it.

“What's up with you?” her roommate asks. “I'm supposed to be the depressed grease monkey.”

“Just thinking.”

“'Bout what?”

“If you could leave here and have your powers back, would you?”

America sighs quietly. “Dunno, Kiddo. Thing is I hurt people. Maybe I deserve to be a prisoner here.”

That isn't what Jamie hoped to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a tumblr. You can find me here: http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/ I'm going to start posting material related to my next fanfiction, and AU that involves Bucky Barnes being a professional danseur with the New York City Ballet.


	12. The Winter Soldier Vs. Deck Shorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wore an itsy bitsy, teeny weenie... Also, whales. Whales know everything.

Sweat glistens over broad shoulders, over a back full of edges. The way the trapezius swoops down into the rhomboid that cradles the spine only to flare again into the latissimus dorsi creates such beautiful curves it makes Steve's shorts uncomfortably tight. In short, Bucky Barnes is a Greek god. He's Adonis. He's Apollo. Watching him move around the unshaded balcony of the flybridge in nothing but low-slung shorts will be the death of Steve Roberts. He leans over to snatch up his sketchpad in order to record this phenomenon for posterity.

[A drab tent. Cold air. The thick scent of snow about to fall. Flames leap outside the tent where some of the Hydra escapees murmur. “What did they do to you?” Bucky whispers. His palm is still chilled as it ghosts over Steve's bare chest. “Performed an act of God?” Embarrassment. Steve shrinks away from being stripped bare by Bucky's gaze. Tries to push those achingly familiar hands away. Pulls a blanket over his nudity. “Hey,” Bucky begins. “What's wrong?” “S'not me. Feel like I'm one of those circus strongmen with big boogly muscles. Doesn't feel like me. You might not want this guy.” “Oh baby. I'm gonna miss that little guy from Brooklyn, but the Stevie I want's right here.” A finger taps over his heart. Against his temple. Tears sting his eyes. Allows the blanket to be pulled away. “You're a chucklehead, you know. Only man on the planet who complains about getting to look like Adonis.” Desire heats Bucky's eyes. His hand goes back to petting Steve's chest. Bucky doesn't understand. Can't understand that Steve hasn't settled well into the new body. It's so different. Later that night, Steve wakes the rest of the camp by screaming his way out of a nightmare, fingers hooked, his own ragged nails trying to claw away the new body to find the old Steve Rogers. Bucky, Gabe, and Jim have to hold him down until the fit passes. It's not him. The body isn't him. Feels like he's suffocating under the weight of all that muscle.]

Steve comes back from the memory clammy and breathless, like he's experiencing the same suffocation the other Steve did trying to settle into a new body. His chest is so tight he searches for an inhaler only to realize he's left it in their cabin below the main deck. Bucky must see his distress, as the man drops the soft-bristled scrub brush and disappears downstairs, returning moments later with the new hard-bodied box filled with a six month supply of his various medications. His lover showed up with it their first night on the boat. Steve hasn't had the heart to ask him where he got it.

Two shots of his rescue inhaler eases the tightness of his lungs, at which point, he swishes a swallow of water in his mouth and spits it before gargling another swallow. He smiles upon realizing Bucky is watching his routine.

“First year of needing a rescue inhaler, no one told me you should rinse your mouth after using it. I got oral thrush so bad that year I could hardly swallow. Kinda haven't been able to lately.”

“What were you remembering?” Bucky, crouched between his knees, smooths circles on his thighs.

“Steve used to wake screaming in the night, like he was being suffocated by the weight of his body.”

The other man scowls, narrows his eyes, and searches through the depths of his broken memories. “I remember. During the war. Got so bad we started restraining his hands when he had to sleep. It was either that or watch him claw himself open. It scared me. It was the last resort, you know. Restraining a man's hands when you're in the middle of a war zone prevents him from going for his weapon.”

Steve cupped his lover's cheeks and pulled him closer for a lazy kiss. “I hope he's somewhere safe.”

“He is,” Bucky whispers and settles a hand over Steve's heart.

For some reason, that brings tears to his eyes, knowing that Bucky considers him a safe vessel for what remains of the great Steve Rogers. His lover is completely out of his mind bonkers for thinking that, but it still makes him feel good that he has the approval of Rogers' widow. He's honored by that sort of trust, honored to be allowed some small part of Captain America's greatness, so he collects Bucky's hands and brings the knuckles, scraped and chapped from work, to his lips.

Bucky eventually rises and returns to scrubbing the teak wood covering the flydeck, and Steve resumes sketching the other man standing, feet shoulder-width apart, on the deck, fingers laced behind his head, back arching in a stretch to relieve tension from bending over the decking. He spends an hour detailing the sheen of sweat glistening on his lover's flesh, crisped to a tan by the golden sun ablaze overhead.

His companion might be able to flounce around in the Pacific sun in next to nothing, but Steve hides in the shaded area in easy reach of the laptop and a beer. Condensation sweats down the side of said beer, making his tongue ache to lick up each drop. That is, if he can manage to take his hands off the pencil that scratches across the paper.

They've owned the yacht for two weeks. It's a Hatteras 70 Motor Yacht, and at seventy-four feet long, the previous owner scoffed at Bucky's decision to operate the boat himself, and it was only through sheer force of will that Steve had talked him into keeping the crew for a fourteen day training period. Watching his lover spending two weeks focusing rapt attention on learning how to operate the craft from professionals has been an enlightening experience. Entertaining, too, but the temporary contract with the previous yacht staff ended yesterday. They're both able to perform basic maintenance and pilot the yacht. Bucky is better with maintaining the engine and surfaces.

Tomorrow, after the falsified documents finally clear, they plan on pushing out to sea. Bucky said something about disguising the paper trial to hide their footprint from the Avengers, about it looking funny that a yacht sale took place around the same time as they fled down the coast from Oregon. They're going to sail down the west coast to Panama and transit the canal there to empty into the Caribbean Sea. From there, they'll spend a week on the Turks and Caicos Islands until they have a more solid plan on getting Jamie safely away.

After a while, Bucky finishes his task and asks, “What're you working on?”

Steve hums but sets aside the sketchbook so Bucky can straddle his lap, at which point, he gives the man lazy kisses while sliding his fingers down the back of those sinfully skimpy denim shorts to knead the man's bare ass. “Doesn't matter now that you're done with the whatever.”

His companion eases away with a look. “Stevie, it's not a whatever. You gotta keep the teak clean. Otherwise the salt builds up or the sun warps the wood or general wear and tear compromises it.”

Soft laughter. “'Kay, babydoll. You take care of your teak, and I'll polish a different kind of wood.”

“The mouth on you,” his companion whispers as he comes in for another kiss.

It hits him then that Bucky looks happy, genuinely happy in a way he's never seen the man before, so instead of trying to get in the man's pants, he simply strokes fingertips up and down that gorgeous back while taking in the sun-lines across Bucky's face. The man has something that belongs to him now that has nothing to do with war or death, a home of his own that he can invest in and take care of.

They could live on this boat together, all three of them, and cruise the ocean seeing exciting places and experiencing all the wonderful variety the world has to offer. No one will be around to bother them. The Avengers won't be able to track them. Hydra and the KGB can be a forgotten memory.

“I love you,” Steve whispers while holding the man's gaze.

“I love you, too, Stevie. So much.”

[“Stevie!” Blood. Blood staining Bucky's uniform. Blood painting his hands crimson. Pain. A jagged piece of shrapnel bisecting Steve's left pectoral muscle with a piece severing part of the heart muscle. “Don't you fucking dare leave me! Stevie, please.” His lover sounds broken. Tears carve canyons down his cheeks. Drip from his chin. Someone's trying to pull Bucky away. Tim Cadwallader. Dum Dum Dugan clamps Bucky back against his broad chest to make way for Monty. Monty knows its bad. Doesn't even take time for a shot of morphine, just slips his fingers into the laceration to trace the shrapnel down to where it pierces his heart. “I'll need clamps. Wash them off as best you can in the river. If I remove this without clamping off the artery, he'll bleed out before his body can heal.” Broken sobs. “You can't leave me. I love you, Stevie. Love you so much.” If the Howling Commandos are disturbed by one man declaring his love for another, they don't show it.]

Steve comes back to his yacht captain looking down with concern, a concern he wipes away with a smile. “Just a memory of Rogers in the war.”

“My memories come in bits and pieces instead of one seamless life. They took a whole life from me. It's something I'll never forgive them for.”

He's about to reassure Bucky and maybe do a few tequila shots off the man's navel when the laptop dings with an incoming message. Bucky gets up to busy himself studying the navigational systems.

**Buchanan1791: Jesus H.W. Christ. Where are you?**

**CaPanamerica1868: Where are you?**

**Buchanan1791: Joe's in Grand Central.**

**CaPanamerica1868: Any of your escorts around?**

**Buchanan1791: America. Stark said you went rogue with The Other Buchanan.**

**CaPanamerica1868: You believe him?**

**Buchanan1791: Does a gazelle believe a tiger when it says it's not gonna eat him?**

**CaPanamerica1868: Gazelles and tigers aren't contemporaries.**

**Buchanan1791: Wrong! You're thinking of the Thompson Gazelle. It lives in Africa. But Asian tigers feed on the Goiters Gazelle.**

**CaPanamerica1868: Well look at you, smarty-pants. I didn't go rogue. Stark broke his word to me and wanted to jail Bucky when he's not responsible for the kills he was ordered to make.**

**Buchanan1791: Shouldn't that be up to a judge, though. That's what the courts are for.**

**CaPanamerica1868: We also know our court system is corrupt. They'll crucify Bucky as a traitor to America. They don't know how to prosecute cases of brainwashing. The People Vs. Grey. The court already ruled that psychic testimony isn't allowed. They wouldn't let Charles Xavier even testify that Dr. Grey was operating under the influence of the Phoenix.**

**Buchanan1791: You really believe in him, or is this Steve Rogers rescuing his old pal?**

**CaPanamerica1868: This is Steve Roberts defending a good man who endured Hell on Earth for seventy years and deserves to have a chance to rebuild his life. Do you trust me?**

**Buchanan1791: I don't know. You left me with strangers for almost two months now.**

**CaPanamerica1868: I knew you'd be safe there.**

**Buchanan1791: Tony says you wanna move us in with The Other Buchanan.**

**CaPanamerica1868: I want him to live with us.**

**Buchanan1791: Tony says he's dangerous. He's killed people.**

**CaPanamerica1868: Bad people. People who were trying to take him back into custody and make him do awful things again.**

**Buchanan1791: Did he really kill Tony's parents?**

**CaPanamerica1868: Maybe. But if he did, he was doing so under duress. They had him under such tight control he couldn't even kill himself to avoid committing the actions.**

**Buchanan1791: Tony says it's not right for an underage girl to have to live with him.**

**CaPanamerica1868: Tony also makes promises he never intends to keep. If you're really uncomfortable living with him, we'll make arrangements for something else. It's you and me against the world, Bucket. 'Til the end of the line.**

**Buchanan1791: You haven't called me Bucket in years. You're trying to nostalgia my agreement.**

**CaPanamerica1868: Is it working?**

**Buchanan1791: Sam and Tony are fighting, you know. Not just normal fighting. Nat and Clint look like their parents are getting divorced. Do you think Iron Man and Captain America are gonna get divorced?**

**CaPanamerica1868: Maybe. Lying to and manipulating a civilian into leading you to your target doesn't sound like the sort of thing Captain America would approve of. Tony has a right to be angry about his parents, but he's angry at the wrong person.**

**Buchanan1791: America isn't happy either. She was working with the Avengers once and brought a beast from a different dimension to help fight off a bunch of AIM robots. The beast kind of went savage when it reached our atmosphere. Some civilians died, so now he makes her wear this bracelet that hampers her powers and an ankle bracelet to monitor her location. She's not allowed to leave the tower except for days like today when she can bring me for coffee. People stare at her like she's a freak. It's not her fault. It was an accident. Guess it's the same with Barnes, huh? Neither of them wanted to hurt anybody, not really.**

**CaPanamerica1868: That's right, Bucket. Murder requires premeditation. It's a shame what happened to America, but Tony was the team leader. He's the one who ordered her into action. Soldiers aren't held accountable for misfires when they're acting under orders from their commanding officers.**

**Buchanan1791: Do you think she could come with us if she doesn't want to stay here?**

**CaPanamerica1868: I'll have to talk it over with Bucky first. No promises. I love him.**

**Buchanan1791: Like you loved Mbali?**

**CaPanamerica1868: Yes.**

**Buchanan1791: Come get me.**

***

There's only one hitch in his brilliant plan: Bucky Barnes, the Asset, Microsoft 3.0 suffers from motion sickness. The serum infusing his body doesn't allow for him to actually be sick. He can't vomit and find any sort of relief, but the gnawing nausea eating away at his gut after days of being on the open water makes him hang his head over the side railing to watch the crystalline depths of the Pacific Ocean. A miserable little moan escapes. Part of him thinks that if he could just throw up, he would get some relief, but that would require his body to not hate him with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

“Are you still feeling gross, babydoll?”

He turns a misery-etched face toward the man nancing around the forward deck in tiny deck shorts and a striped sailor shirt. The shorts ride low on his hips, revealing black and white striped briefs with a yellow waistband that make his cute little butt look enticing. The way the shorts mold to his lover's ass makes him forget his misery momentarily, and he glances down at his crotch, encased in cut-off denim shorts. Said crotch swells eagerly.

Telling that part of himself to pipe down doesn't help, not when Steve leans over a bench to grab something and his foot, hidden inside adorable canvas shoes, pops up, drawing attention to the milky-white calves. The man's sailor shirt rides up. A swath of his back peeks out, and the flimsy deck shorts pull tight across Steve's perfect cheeks, the variety of cheeks Bucky wants to sink his teeth in.

Right. He's supposed to be miserable, not checking out Steve Roberts, First Mate.

“I hate the water. This was a dumb idea. Is it too late to give back the boat?”

And Steve, Steve has the gall to laugh, but the other man flounces over, peels one of Bucky's hands away from the railing, and dumps six tablets in his palm. “Take two and call me in the morning.”

“What is it?”

“Dramamine. Hopefully it will make your tummy feel better. Poor tummy.”

Soft fingers pet his stomach. Bucky screeches and side-steps. “That tickles.”

“Oh ho ho. So the infamous, and deadly assassin known as the Winter Soldier is ticklish.” Steve looks positively impish, like a man about to do something he won't regret.

“Don't you dare.”

Body tensing, Bucky flies away from the demon king and flees down the starboard passage, a narrow pathway leading down the exterior of the main back toward the stern. He beats Steve there with a dozen or so seconds to spare, vaults into the cabin, and slams the door. Safety isn't assured until he clicks the lock behind him, thus trapping the other man outside, at which point, Bucky crows his victory like a five-year-old, by making moose antlers, thumbs against his ears and fingers stretching toward the sky, and waggling his tongue.

Steve puts on a big show of pouting before disappearing from view by taking the cockpit stairs up to the flybridge. Moments later, the engine purrs like a kitten as the bow slices through the water and gains speed. The demon king is up to something.

He tries not to panic and activates the intercom. “Stevie, what are you up to?”

Silence.

“Answer me right this second.”

Silence.

“Steven Grant Roberts, don't make me come up there.”

The yacht gains speed, and without warning, Steve cuts hard to the starboard side. Waves created in the wake of their passing careen up onto the cockpit deck. Bucky is damn near flung off his feet. The motion sickness destroys any effect the Dramamine has had on his system. Moments later, Steve cuts them hard to port, and Bucky damn near dry-heaves.

“You win! Uncle. This is me crying uncle!”

Bucky unlocks the sliding glass door and takes the stairs up to the flybridge where he intends on strangling his lover with gross prejudice. Trouble is Steve's standing there in his little deck shoes and his little shorts with his briefs peeking out, and Bucky can't really think about doing anything but kissing the man senseless, which he is on his way to do when a whale breaches the waterline not more than fifty feet off their port. The behemoth spears from the water and crashes back down with an explosion of whitecaps. Moments later, three more arrive.

“Steve,” he breathes, distracted from his earlier intent and hurrying to the railing to watch in wonder as nature's giants create geysers of escaping air from their blowholes. A spray of water shoots skyward as the escaping air disturbs the water's surface.

His chest becomes tight with awe. He's never seen anything so magnificent, not in the near-hundred years of his life. A century he's been on the planet. The world has passed beneath his feet. Russia, Scandinavia, Asia, the Americas, continents and islands and polar ice caps have felt the pressure of his boots, but nothing has filled him with the same kind of wonder as seeing these giants in the flesh.

Steve's hand rubs circles on his back. “They're gray whales, it looks like. See the knuckles along its back and the notch between the flukes? That's part of how you can tell.”

A trickle of wet glistens down his cheek. He doesn't bother wiping it away. It's then he understands the magnitude of this moment. Just months ago, he would have been a prisoner of the KGB and forced to perform assassinations in their name. But he's here, on his own yacht, with a man he loves, watching whales exhaling the great contents of their lungs and taking in new air.

He muffles a sound against his palms. One whale pulls within fifteen feet of the boat. Bucky can look down into the soulful eye that seems to inspect them. There's no telling what possesses him, but he practically falls down the stairs into the cockpit and then down another short flight onto the stern deck which gives access to the crew corridor. It also brings him closest to the water.

The whale approaches.

“Hi, aren't you the most beautiful thing?”

There are stories, of course, where whales have saved distressed divers, stories where whales are as curious about humans as humans are about them. He's never given them much thought. That doesn't fit into the life of an assassin, into the life of a machine, but as the whale breaches again near the stern deck, he thinks there must be some credit to the stories.

It's close. Bucky toes the edge of the deck and stretches out his flesh arm, goes down onto his knees, but the creature is just out of reach, the deck just that much too high off the water. Excitement dims. The whale slips back under the surface. His heart pounds with the incredible experience.

He's just ready to get up when the creature returns, breaching the water with her head thrusting skyward, and he reaches out to allow her thick hide to drag along his palm. When she reaches the pinnacle, gravity pulls her back down where she watches him for what feels like an eternity before disappearing again into the deep.

Believing that it actually happened seems surreal, but the proof is there, glistening on his palm, the ocean water covering her hide, thick, leathery, and encrusted with barnacles. Something shifts inside his mind. A profound feeling settles onto his shoulders. He's loved twice in his life. He's marched through Hell and come out the other side. He has a home. The whale allowed him to touch her.

Bucky stands and turns in a circle, arms spread to either side and head tipped back into the sun. They couldn't break him. Pieces of him are gone that he'll never regain, but nothing the KGB did to him was able to crush the man inside. He doesn't have to feel like he disappointed the best of men, his Stevie.

“Come here, babydoll,” Stevie croons from the top of the stairs.

Taking them two at a time, he throws both arms around the other man, lifts him overhead and turns in a circle, and the way Steve touches him, one hand on his flesh arm, the other on the metal as though it's nothing to avoid touching, brings a fresh wave of tears.

“Did you see that? Stevie, she let me touch her!”

“I saw, Bucky Bear. It was incredible.”

They kiss there in the cockpit, and later, after anchoring off the coast in a sheltered cove, they make love in the master stateroom with Steve joining their bodies from behind. Bucky takes over when the other man's muscles need a break, biting into the corner of a pillow and fucking himself back on his lover's cock. With every thrust, the head rakes against his prostate until the tension snaps, until the orgasm washes over him like a gentle wave. Steve doesn't come in the condom. He urges Bucky onto his back in order to stroke himself to completion, streaks of semen painting Bucky's abdomen and chest. The sheets don't get changed that night. Laughing, Steve chases him, both naked, down the lower deck hallway to the bow of the ship where they sleep in the guest stateroom.

Dawn gleams golden across the calm ocean the following morning when they raise anchor and fuck and fish their way down the western seaboard. Fishing isn't something he thought he would enjoy, but reeling in a catch, cleaning it, and providing for his lover feels good, like he's contributing in a way that doesn't have to involve violence. Makes him feel good to take care of Stevie, a sentiment over which Steve would likely scream bloody murder if he knew. Good thing Bucky ain't telling.

It's a peaceful, quiet time. They stop at various ports along the way to purge their waste water and fill their tanks with potable water, or to replenish their food supplies. Sometimes they stop for overnight stays on land. They spend three days in Acapulco seeing a few sights and getting their bodies reacquainted with the stability of dry land. There, they present themselves as Chris and Sebastian Stevens, a married couple enjoying a long honeymoon. The hotel they check into arranges for them to have champagne and strawberries to celebrate their marriage.

Once they drop anchor in Panama to begin the paperwork necessary to make the crossing, they realize moving a seventy-four foot yacht through the transit with two people is more than they're ready for. They hire a few deckhands in the city and have to wait two days for their paperwork to clear and to be scheduled into transit line. Delays mean spending six hours on Gatun Lake. Bucky finds the intrusion of the deckhands near unbearable for those six hours. He can't stop looking at them, tensing whenever one makes a move that doesn't seem quite natural.

Steve rubs a hand over his back, props a chin on his shoulder and coos, “You're doing so good, babydoll. It won't be much longer.”

He doesn't know how to put into words the itchy sensation under his skin. The weeks of being alone with Steve on the yacht have spoiled him, allowed defensive walls to crumble under disuse that once would have protected him from the turmoil of hyper-awareness. Primed and ready to explode. A grenade whose pin has corroded and threatens snapping clean through.

One of the deckhand makes the mistake of lighting a cigarette.

“Put it out,” snarls Bucky.

Said deckhand says something in Spanish. He never worked in a Spanish-speaking country, thus never had a reason to learn that particular language.

Steve speaks to the deckhand in a flurry of foreign words, causing the Panamanian to flinch and flick his cigarette overboard.

Tension mixing with nausea white-knuckles Bucky's fingers around the railing. He tips forward to rest his head between them in an effort to find some kind of balance, to somehow avoid shrieking to the world that he accidentally hired Hydra deckhands, and there's going to be a gun-battle aboard-- You should really name your boat, pal. The Asset snaps at Microsoft 1.0 that now isn't the best time to have an argument. He really should name the boat, though.

Where was he?

Gun-battle.

Right, he's the only douche-canoe on the planet who inadvertently hires Hydra right onto his very ship. There's going to be a gun-battle. POP POP POP. Or maybe knives. The deckhands will come at them with knives, and the pristine white of—Name the damn boat, pal—will become splattered with crimson. Crimson on the teak decking. Crimson on the white seats. Crimson turning pink with ocean spray as a whale breaches the surface—Name it, pal! Hydra. A grinning skull with six tentacles. Hydra everywhere. Leonid Novokov sighting down the barrel of a VSS Vintorez loaded with a nine by thirty-three millimeter round with Captain America's name on it.

His thought process breaks down. VSS Vintorez. Dragunov SVU. SV-98. Gun oil. The butt of a rifle pressed firmly against his shoulder. Take a breath. Release it. Still the heart rate. Target sighted. Take another breath. Exhale. Target moving into the dead zone. Squeeze the trigger. BOOM. Kickback. Don't grunt. Visual confirmation of kill. Extraction imminent.

“Breathe with me, Bucky.”

That sweet voice doesn't belong on the field.

“In one, two, three. Out one, two three. You're on our yacht. We're anchored on Gatun Lake. You're safe. We're just waiting to complete the transit. Breathe, baby. Please, breathe.”

He can't breathe. Fingers raise to claw at his throat but are caught between delicate, artist's fingers, and there's just enough of him left that he won't risk breaking more of Stevie's fingers by struggling to free himself. Why can't he breathe?

“You're safe, babydoll. We're in Panama waiting to complete the transit. Look at me. I'm Steve Roberts, and I love you so goddamn much I can't stand myself.”

Breath finally squeaks past the constriction of his lungs to flood his system with fresh oxygen. The burning in his chest eases immensely, but once he starts breathing, he damn near hyperventilates. Fingers ache from clenching them too hard against his jeans. Not tactical pants. Jeans. Because he's not that man anymore. He doesn't have to be that man ever again.

Exhausted, he sags against the wall his back is braced against and slides down on the decking. “S-sorry. Don't know what came over me.”

“Oh, baby. No. There's nothing for you to be sorry for. You just had a panic attack, is all.”

“Still sorry.”

Afterward, Bucky is lethargic and unfocused, so much so that when their turn in the Gatun Locks finally arrives, it's Steve who barks orders at the deckhands and settles himself behind the controls. They move through each chamber to descend twenty-six meters, and when the gates finally open, Steve pilots their craft into the Atlantic side where he anchors at Pier Six to let the deckhands disembark.

Steve insists on making dinner that night in the main cabin, fresh salad and a Mexican-inspired bubble-up crusted with biscuits. Bucky can't bring himself to eat much and goes to bed early feeling like part of him has been carved out to leave a hollow ache inside. It was too much to hope that all his progress meant panic attacks were a thing a past, he supposes.

The next morning, he's a little more rested, at least enough so that he's able to release their moorings from the dock so they can strike out across the Caribbean Sea. They anchor off the coast of Turks and Caicos where they will remain until they've made contact with Jamie Roberts and Sam Wilson again.

***

“The Mbali Rogers.”

“Hmm?” Steve looks up from the charts spread across the table in the flybridge lounge.

“That's what I want to name the boat. For your first love and for mine. We wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for our late husbands.”

Emotion pricks his eyes, and he looks away for several long moments.

“If that's all right? We don't have to.”

“No. No, that's perfect, Bucky. That's so perfect.”

Steve stands and strolls over to wrap both arms around the other man's neck, the length of their bodies pressed together. Their mouths brush. He thinks these are his favorite sorts of kisses, the kind that aren't necessarily passion-fueled and driven by the base need to copulate, but the casual sorts of kisses born of long-standing intimacy. He can kiss this man for the rest of his natural life.

When they part, they don't really part. He remains pressed up against the other man, happiness bringing out a soft smile. “The Mbali Rogers, it is.”

The ding of an incoming message on the laptop forestalls anything else. They've hidden their access to the internet by routing through a VPN and encrypting all email transactions, but they still only turn on their connection once a day to check to see if Jamie has gotten in touch with them. Jamie isn't the originator of the IM waiting for him.

**RedWing13: We need to talk.**

**CaPanamerica1868: I'm here.**

**RedWing13: Stark's developed a program that can remotely detect the nanotechnology Barnes is chasing. You need to get to those processors before Tony does.**

**CaPanamerica1868: Any idea how close he is to finding them?**

**RedWing13: I don't know. Sorry I can't do more, but Tony and I don't really trust each other anymore. My big mouth ran away with me. Told him what I thought about his manic paranoia.**

**CaPanamerica1868: How's Jamie?**

**RedWing13: She's fine. Tony's helping her work on a school project, so he's not taking it out on her that you and Barnes got away. Don't worry. I've got my eye on her. If anything changes about their dynamic, Stark will have me to deal with. How are you and Barnes?**

**CaPanamerica1868: Happy. Except for, you know, Iron Man being on the war path and Jamie being a continent away in the custody of my enemy.**

They end the IM conversation with a new detonator clock over their heads but are no closer to figuring out a way to remotely identify the location of the nanotechnology. When it comes to a computer footrace, Tony doesn't just have the edge. He has the whole goddamn mountain, and there is no telling what that man will do with the Winter Soldier codes. Nothing good, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me here on tumblr: http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/
> 
> Still getting the hang of it, and I'm sometimes not sure what to post, but there are visual aids there for my next fic.


	13. Freight Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter and then an epilogue to go.

The soft glow of a laptop monitor illuminates Jamie's face in the otherwise dark bedroom. America's soft snoring halts abruptly. The other girl rolls over and props herself on an elbow, knuckles easing the crust of sleep from her eyes before she yawns. A digital clock ticks from one fifty-nine to two a.m.

“Shit fire. Light matches. What the fuck are you doing up at the ungodly hour of ass-o'clock?” slurs her roommate, hair sticking out in every direction but down.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” Fingers clack over the keys as she finishes hiding the file amidst other audio codes that will redirect the feed from Iron Man's helmet into her laptop's sound system. Meanwhile, she stays ahead of JARVIS by rewriting several of the AI's basic command codes to instruct the computer to overlook scanning the audio files. All this using Tony Stark's master code.

“Mmhmm.” America dozes off propped on her elbow only to jerk awake moments later. “No, really. What are you doing up so late on a school night?”

She takes out one earbud. “Sexting with Rebel Ralston.”

“You're a lying liar who lies,” America fires back. “Everybody knows you've got a lust-crush on Sam Wilson. No way you would cheat on Sammy with some high schooler.”

“We're just getting to the good part.” She slows her typing and pretends to read aloud. “Oh baby, I want your blast-off. I'm riding you like a rocket ship to Mars. Gonna come in your atmosphere.”

Her roommate giggles.

She looks up sharply with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Crepes and marmalade, did you just laugh? I didn't know you could laugh, Grouchy Bear.”

“Shut up.”

The operation is at much too delicate a stage to turn off the laptop, so when the other girl slides into bed beside her, Jamie can't risk hiding the evidence without fear of losing the connection. In the lone earbud plugging her ear, she hears JARVIS' tinny voice reporting to Iron Man that he's located another nanotech signal. Iron Man lands somewhere in the vicinity of the lost processors to take a close-range reading, at which point, JARVIS translates the code into “Nine and Arnim Zola.” She jots the two words down in both English and their phonetic Russian counterparts.

“What is this?” asks America.

“That code project Tony's helping me work on.”

“No. No, that's-- Is that JARVIS' bios? Are you hacking Stark's AI?”

“For fuck's sake, keep your voice down,” she hisses and slaps a hand over America's mouth. The other is employed in crossing herself. JARVIS may be blind to her current online activity. He isn't deaf to whatever monitoring systems are installed in their suite.

“Oh,” the other girl says, voice uncertain, mercurial expressions gliding like water across her face.

Jamie shivers, snaps her head around, and furrows her brow. It took a frighteningly slim amount of time for her roommate to figure out what was what, and the understanding that America now stands between Jamie Roberts and knight in shining armor status drops a lead weight into her gullet. One word from the other girl, and her brilliant plans meet the JARVIS' solid, brick firewalls.

Clear pleading lies naked on her face as she moves her hands into the prayer position. She mouths, “Please. Steve needs me.”

America is silent.

In the earbud, Jamie hears JARVIS give Iron Man the next coordinates.

“He's all I got, 'Merica, and he needs me.”

It comes with a certain sense of shock when America finally nods and scoots closer.

***

Steve throws a coffee mug across the flybridge. It shatters in thick shards, but the explosion of violence doesn't do a damn thing to ease the panic nesting firmly in his gut. His head falls between his shoulder blades, hands fanned across the tabletop whereon a world map rests. Several red marks chortle haughtily up from said map, educated guesses as to the locations of the other processors. But they're flying blind. He knows they're flying blind. Tubes of paint from that factory have been shipped all over the world to various website warehouses and stores. The chances of ever finding them are nil.

“Sugar, your blood pressure,” Bucky says while sliding both arms around his waist.

“This is impossible. I'm not a computer genius. Jamie might be able to get us into M. Graham's shipping manifests, but this is beyond me. What the fuck are we gonna do?” He crosses himself.

“Look, if Stark finds the codes before us, then it's a blow, but it's not the end. We don't even really know what those codes do.”

“Yes, we do, Bucky. They're the Winter Soldier activation codes. Stark can use them to activate your programming and either order you to come in or order you into an ambush situation.”

“He has to get near me first.”

A heavy sigh escapes. He leans back against Bucky's warmth. “The second set of codes. What if they're your permanent deactivation codes? What if they deprogram the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky's quiet. He props his chin on the crown of Steve's head, arms tightening, lost in thought for so long Steve wonders if the man he loves has checked out again. A rumble of sound precedes actual words, and he knows from the first phrase he's not going to like what his lover has to say. 

“What if I turned myself in?”

Steve swivels around to face his lover and cups both cheeks. “Babydoll, no. He'll put you in prison. Or worse. That's not the answer. You don't deserve prison.”

The other man nibbles the inside of his cheek. “And you don't deserve to be whisked across the world for the rest of your life. Let's say we successfully liberate Jamie. Say we get her back and make it to the Mbali Rogers. Then what? We'll be running for the rest of our lives. Jamie and you don't deserve that. So what's the alternative? I leave you in New York and go on the run myself.”

[“I don't like it anymore than you do,” Bucky snaps, “but the cops are watching us. They saw us coming out of the queer bar. If we don't start making the illusion of dating girls, they're gonna find out. I can't live knowing you're in prison for loving me.” Anger blooms color in Steve's cheeks. “Then we're letting them win.” “You can't fight the law, Stevie! This ain't something you can punch your way outta.” “You start running--” “They'll never let you stop. I know. Fuck, I hate that phrase, but Sugar, they'll put you in prison. Prison, Stevie.” Defeat feels like being pinned to the floor and unable to rise. Defeat feels like being fitted with concrete shoes by the Italian mafia. He looks up. “Okay, Babydoll. But you better be thinking about me every time you kiss that Gertie Thompson.”]

Steve can't swallow a helpless sob. How many times has he said 'You start running, and they'll never let you stop?' Running isn't something bred into the Rogers gene, but for the freedom of the man he loves? He would tuck tail and run the rest of his life to keep him from being killed or serving prison time for things that aren't his fault. Muffling his tears against Bucky's chest doesn't stop the flood despite how stupid he feels for weeping when Bucky is the one facing the firing squad.

Either way they spin it, their lives will never be the way either imagined. Those sweet fantasies of coming home to Bucky Barnes looking rumpled from a day working down at a garage, bun messy, and eyes aglow with excitement over the flowers Steve bought blink out one by one. It's like riding the Carousel of Progress at the Magic Kingdom. As each decade rolls past, the animatronics still, and the scene goes dark. Only instead of a progression through the decades, Steve sees the family he wants to build with Bucky clicking off like an amusement park attraction.

There isn't strength enough left for him to fight when Bucky sweeps him off his feet to carry him downstairs and inside the main deck to the plush sofa. The stress of the last couple months finally catches up to him, rendering him a blubbering mess of tears and snot that are absorbed into the thin t-shirt Bucky wears. He can't remember the last time someone held him while he cried. Would have been his mom in the months before she died. Nothing beats a mom's hug. Being held by Bucky, though, comes in a close second, makes him feel safe in ways he hasn't felt in a long time.

He loses track of time until the tears finally recede enough for him to hiccup a watery sound and finally look up with bleary eyes into the blue-gray of the man above him. The pad of Steve's thumb traces the other man's bottom lip. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If that means we spend those lives running from Tony Stark, then that's what it means.”

“What about Jamie and America?”

“There's always online school.”

“Stevie, I--”

“Stop. Just let me have tonight.”

Helplessness puts a weight on his chest, but he rolls onto Bucky's lap, straddling the man with his knees on either side, in order to cup cheeks coarse with a day of stubble and take ownership of his lover's mouth. It's a sloppy, desperate sort of kiss that feels far too much like goodbye. He can't swallow a broken sound when his lover wraps strong arms around him to slide both palms up his back.

Steve grinds down on the other man's groin to get some friction against their cocks, something that draws the lightest of whimpers from Bucky and makes Steve feel slightly more in control of the situation again. Soft touches are a thing of the past. It isn't about foreplay. It's about the spark that turns grief into a primordial desire to feel alive, about getting enough clothes out of the way to possess each other's bodies and erase the sliver of separation between them.

Trembling hands make loosening Bucky's shorts near impossible, and Barnes has to shove his hands aside to use the steady metal version to rip the fastenings open, at which point, Bucky lifts his hips to shove them down around his thighs in order to kick them free. It leaves him wearing a pair of barely-three red briefs that make Steve's cock twitch in his deck shorts.

There isn't time to really take in the sight. He's too desperate to experience the glory of his lover's body, so he urges Bucky onto his knees on the sofa cushions, face suddenly flaming upon seeing the little triangle of red fabric at the top of Bucky's muscled cheeks. Only then does he realize the man he loves is wearing a thong. The sight shivers his timbers, and if he suddenly makes a strangled sound and leans over to sink his teeth into one of those delectable cheeks, well, who can blame him?

He slips a finger under the triangle and runs it down the cleft of Bucky's ass, forcing the string from where it lay nestled against the man's hole. Up and down, he glides said finger to watch and envy the erotic glide of fabric making the muscle flutter. The sight gets him so hot he takes leave of his senses.

“Sugar,” gasps Bucky. “Stop teasing and give me your cock.”

“You're such a bossy bottom.”

After a few moments of manipulating the string against his lover's hole, he eases back and leaves a stinging slap against one cheek before saying, mouth pressed close to the man's ear, “Come downstairs. I wanna show you how to douche.”

And the thing is that douching isn't glamorous or sexy. It feels incredibly strange. The process looks gross, but the fact that Bucky braces a leg on the toilet tank to spread himself and allows Steve to insert the nozzle for him is such a statement of trust that the process becomes sexy. Bucky trusts him, turns his back and allows him access to his most vulnerable flesh with the softest whisper of sound, and he's suddenly not sure if he'll last long enough to satisfy them both tonight.

“If you wanted,” he hummed against the other man's neck as his lover evacuates himself, “you could fuck me sometime. Doesn't always have to be me fucking you.”

“But I like when you fuck me.”

“That's great. I love making you feel good, but if you're curious and want to explore the other way, that's something we can do.”

“A-al- Yeah. But not tonight. Unless you want me to. I don't-- Not really--”

He hums a hushing noise against the man's lips before helping him to clean up. “Babydoll, we don't gotta do anything. If you aren't comfortable doing me, that's okay. Just wanted you to know it's okay.”

For the time being, though, he takes his lover's hand once the toilet water runs clean, and leads him from the bathroom to the master stateroom. Bucky settles himself on his back and opens his legs in clear invitation, so Steve climbs up after him, stalking forward with the rise of sharp shoulder blades like a leopard working its prey.

He arrives with a sharp nip against the inside of his lover's thigh. A yelp follows. White teeth flash from behind Steve's feral smile. He brushes his nose along his lover's half-mast erection and breathes deep the scent of the man he loves. Bucky's bronze skin muffles his voice when he says “Little Red Riding Hood gasps, 'Grandmother, what big teeth you have.' And the wolf responds, 'all the better to eat you with, my dear.'”

Teeth flash again and leave a crescent impression against a lobe of his lover's ass.

Bucky's laughter bleeds into a heady moan as he arcs from the bed. Both legs lift and spread to provide Steve more room in which to work, hands gripping feet to keep them in place.

Steve glances up the peaks and valleys to meet the other man's lust-lidded eyes. “I'm going to eat you up.” That's all the warning given before he buries his face between those delectable cheeks and presses the flat of his tongue against the tight furl of muscle.

His lover squeaks and clenches, rearing from the headboard to look at the sight between his legs.

The rush that follows leaves him a quivering mess of anticipation as he feels Bucky bridge himself off the mattress, as he caresses the sharp muscle and solid weight of the glorious, gorgeous man who trusts him enough to let him have this. His tongue flicks gentle kitten licks until the fluttering muscle relaxes enough to allow him to thrust inside the velvet confines.

He pulls back long enough to wet two fingers with saliva that circle the hole to watch it contract and spasm in response. The sight is so entrancing he loses track of time until his lover's restless moans bring him back to the present, encourage him to push his tongue past the muscle to hook around the rim where a gentle tug lights Bucky up and sends him into a tailspin of Russian curses. This, he convinces himself, is paradise. If he is the reincarnation of Steve Rogers, then surely moments like these will bring him to Nirvana, surrounded by the musk and guttural, whiskey smoke and gravel voice of the man he loves, the man they both love: Steve Roberts and Steve Rogers.

Becoming lost in the taste and body heat allows him to forget the odds stacked against them. They can just be. They can exist in a haze of lust and love until the rest of the world no longer matters, until his tongue is sore and Bucky's voice breaks over desperate sorts of sounds.

Taking a breath, he dives back in to run his tongue around the rim and seal his lips there where he sucks gently. Once. Twice. A third time, and the man receiving his ministrations suddenly tightens and shouts, spilling hot and wet over his own loins and stomach without the need for further stimulation. Something cracks.

Steve emerges from between the other man's legs to look up only to find Bucky looking sheepish and holding a section of the headboard in his metal hand. Giggles turn into outright guffaws, but upon seeing the concern deepen in his lover's face, he shakes his head and crawls back up the man's body to kiss at his chin and cheeks.

“No. No, babydoll. I'm not laughing at you. I'm just happy.”

Bucky grumbles something unintelligible.

“What was that?”

“Said I'd be happier with your cock inside me.”

“I think it's gonna take you a couple minutes before penetration doesn't hurt.”

A sable brow arcs. The man glances down his body toward his penis, which is still flushed red and fully engorged, glistening with the evidence of Bucky's release and continued arousal.

“What? Already?” gasps Steve. “How is that even fair? You're not even half-soft.”

Bucky shrugs but grins a Cheshire grin.

Steve doesn't even take the time to get himself undressed, just jerks open the fastening of his shorts and guides the dewy head of his cock into his lover's hole with gentle pulses of his hips. The muscle gives way willingly, allowing him to sink balls deep inside the other man. 

His head cocks back. A whisper of sound escapes as his lover's tightness melts around him. It's the first time he's fucked Bucky bare, and it's a sensation that rushes to his head. All sense of coordination abandons him in the face of primordial desperation. Hands lock around Bucky's hips to serve as an anchor before he pounds into the other man.

Bucky leans up, clenches his flesh fingers against the back of Steve's head, and pulls him down for a rough, sloppy kiss that lacks all sense of coordination. “Faster. Fuck, you feel so good.”

Rhythm or reason has no place in their coupling. There's only room for the desperate slap of bodies driving each other toward the pinnacle. He only thinks to reach down to fist a hand around his lover's cock because he knows the chances of him lasting for any length of time are minimal. Between the heat and the tight clench and having zero barrier between his lover and him, he can do nothing but uncoil the compressed spring of his tension into the man he loves.

He urges Bucky's legs higher so he's thrusting upward, and there it is. His lover swallows an aborted cry when he finds and massages the man's prostate with the rapid graze of his cock.

“Want me to pull out?”

“No. Wanna feel you inside me for hours.”

The orgasm is suddenly there in the snapping of tension throughout his body, sensation rushing around him like the wave trapped inside a conch shell. He sobs his release as it empties into Bucky's ass, face pressed against the man's chest, legs trembling from the effort of sustaining his weight.

Takes him a couple minutes for his breathing to slide away from the edge of an asthma attack, at which point, he urges his lover to sprawl on the bed and leans down to take Bucky's flushed erection into his mouth. His hand pumps the shaft. Two fingers slide into the man's body to find and stimulate the prostate, and within moments, Bucky shouts his release.

They lay quietly for the rest of the afternoon, and this is one of the many things Steve loves about Bucky. Neither of them feels the need to fill the silence with words. They're as comfortable sitting in silence as they are teasing one another.

Later that night, Bucky sleeps soundly, lulled by the gentle rocking of the yacht, while sleep eludes Steve. He sits up in bed watching the man he loves. The familiar weight and shape of his mother's rosary slides through his fingers, accompanied by an inner recitation, beginning with the sign of the cross by pressing the crucifix to his head (the father), his sternum (the son), the left shoulder (the Holy), and the right shoulder (Spirit). He moves through the Apostle's Creed to Our Father and into three Hail Mary prayers before transitioning to the decades to form a Chaplet.

By the time he finishes praying the rosary, the meditation calms him enough to pray for Mary's intercession in helping him to save Bucky from whatever fate awaits him in New York. He prays long into the night, tears wetting his cheeks, pleading that he doesn't have to lose Bucky the way he lost Mbali, the way Steve Rogers was forced to lose him.

Eventually, morning arrives, and they pull anchor to begin the last leg of their trip up the Eastern seaboard. They plan to dock at 79th Boat Basin on the Hudson river. If everything goes according to plan, Jamie and America will meet them there at the Boat Basin cafe, at which point, they can all hop back on the Mbali Rogers and strike out toward the open ocean again. Sounds simple enough. Things rarely work out the way they're planned, though, as evidenced by the ding of an IM when Steve activates the hot spot to connect to the internet.

**Buchanan1791: Nine=Arnim Zola; Homcoming=Rebellion; One=Origin; Freight Car=Death.**

The IM also included phonetic Russian spellings of the words, enough that Steve can tap in the phonetics and bring up their Cyrillic counterparts. Air whistles through his lungs as he stares at the message. He whips out a piece of paper to jot the information down and include them with the codes they have already tracked down including the three they found at the M Graham factory.

“Bucky! Bucky, get up here!”

Pounding feet rush toward the flybridge, and Bucky bursts up the stairs carrying Steve's inhaler and container of medications, fear in his eyes. “Sugar? Sugar, what is it?”

Steve snatches the inhaler and takes a few puffs, rinses his mouth, and starts speaking in Russian. “Husband, Preserved, Cryostasis.”

His lover's body goes whipcord tense. “What are you doing?”

“Rebirth, Birthday.”

“Stop!” The man's voice goes plaintive. He hunkers into a crouch, hands clasped over his ears as though that will protect him. The way he stares up at Steve with betrayal, hurt, and pain in his eyes nearly halts Steve's progression in its tracks. But the Russians wouldn't make this an easy task, would they? Of course the Winter Soldier would fight his deprogramming.

“Threat, Arnim Zola, Rebellion.”

Bucky's eyes die. The spark puffs out. He surges from his crouch and swings the metal fist toward Steve's head with a snarl, the last gasp of his programming attempting to assert itself.

Steve ducks under the blow and scrambles across the flybridge so he can flee. “Origin.”

The strength of the metal arm allows the Asset to rip free a chair bolted to the decking, a chair he hurls across the lounge as the man's body trembles and becomes drenched in sweat.

He has every intention of ducking beneath said flying object, but it clips him on the way past, knocking him off balance badly enough he tumbles down the stairs. He lands with an exhaled huff and a back on fire. Pain lancing through his nervous system bridges his abused spine.

Stunned and unable to draw breath, he watches helplessly while his lover stalks down the stairs, a sleek panther rolling toward its prey with murder agleam in its eyes. Fear closes his throat. He can't so much as squeak the last word, and when his limbs finally respond, he scrambles backward. It's not fast enough, not with terror spinning intestines to bricks of weighty gold.

The Asset closes its metal hand around Steve's throat and hauls him from the teak decking high enough his feet kick uselessly looking for purchase.

Clawing at the metal proves pointless.

The Asset pulls him nose to nose.

He's going to die. The Asset will kill him.

“Death.” It rasps out on an exhalation.

The Asset shakes his head in an attempt to clear the fog. Shakes it again and blinks rapidly. Recognition finally warms the icy depths. He suddenly releases Steve's neck so quickly that Steve isn't prepared to support his weight and slumps to the deck in a crumpled heap.

“No, no, no! Sugar? Stevie-doll? Oh God, what did I do?”

Steve tries to wave off Bucky's concern but can't get much air past constricted airways. Finally, he gasps, “Inhaler. Heart medication.”

He's never seen Bucky move so fast in two lifetimes. The man scrambles upstairs and nearly loses his balance on the way down, sliding down the last couple of steps on his ass before skittering closer with the requested items. He opens a new syringe, draws the required dosage of the emergency amiodarone, and has it ready for when Steve can pull himself together enough to respond.

After tying on the band and bringing up the vein, Steve plunges the medication intravenously to deliver a fast-acting dose to slow his tachycardia. Only then does he use the rescue inhaler again to open his airways. Within ten minutes, his body settles enough that he can move without being afraid of an impending heart attack or stroke, at which point, he leans his forehead against Bucky's shoulder.

“You're okay. It's okay now. You're safe, babydoll. You're safe now.”

“You need a hospital. What the fuck did I do? I could have killed you!”

“But you didn't.” He takes in a shuddering sort of breath and eases closer. “You didn't, Bucky.”

He doesn't realize at first that the strong arms gathering him up shake, doesn't understand right away the wetness dripping onto his forehead are tears, that the great, gulping sighs are sobs. When he does, Steve eases back to look into the other man's wrecked face. Palms cup those dearly beloved cheeks. “You're safe. I've got you now, babydoll.”

“It's over?”

“Yeah. Jamie sent the rest of the codes. You don't ever have to be afraid of those words again.”

 

“You don't ever have to be afraid of those words again,” Bucky hears ringing like the bells of Notre Dame. The words are meaningless now. He's free, free of the KGB, free of Hydra, free of Tony's machinations to bring him in.

Tears come in the wake of lancing that age-old, festering wound. Nothing stops them. They spring fully formed from guts aching with seventy years of enslavement to whichever organization bought the Winter Soldier activation codes. Freedom is the first taste of Steve Rogers' lips. Freedom is the giving of a partially-eaten hamburger by the man he kidnapped. Freedom is the choice to give his body again to Steve Roberts. Freedom is ownership of his body and consent.

He crumbles like a monument finally giving way to time and weathering and manages to koala himself around the man who never gives up on him. Fresh tears wet his face. Crying somehow removes the stopper from emotions he's long since suppressed, emotions that bubble over in a seemingly unending stream of self-discovery and regret. 

Sobs are muffled by Stevie's shirt. Reminders to be gentle don't go a long way in easing his death-grip on the other man, the man he just clobbered with a chair and pushed down a flight of stairs who won't even hold him responsible for those actions. That slim body teaches him daily how to be a real boy.

Shadows lengthen across the cockpit deck as he grieves what was taken from him. There's no need to keep track of the time. The pus drains from the infected wound and leaves behind a hollow ache that doesn't really hurt, an emptiness that was once filled with terror and a blank nothingness much like a bubble of blackness keeping the slot open where the Winter Soldier is supposed to fit.

Eventually, he quiets enough to realize the decking isn't entirely comfortable, especially not on Steve's body, so he hauls to his feet and helps Steve up rather than man-handling him into the bride-over-the-threshold pose. It seems to be the right decision, as Stevie goes willingly into the main deck and agrees to sit on the sofa they made love on yesterday while Bucky retrieves ice.

Bruises marble Steve's back and hips from the impact, causing Bucky to suck in air through his teeth in shared misery. A goose egg mars the man's temple from the impact of the chair, and he insists on holding ice against it to bring down the swelling. The dying rage of the Winter Soldier.

“The words had meaning,” Bucky whispers into the quiet. “Longing meant my unfulfilled desire for Steve Rogers. Rusted meant the deterioration of my will after learning of Steve's supposed death. Furnace meant the thawing of the Winter Soldier from crysosleep. Daybreak for my rebirth as the Asset. Seventeen for the year of my birth. Benign for the implantation of code words sneaking past my conscious will. Nine for the letters of the name of the man who started my transformation by dosing me with Hydra's serum. Homecoming for my recapture when I broke free of the KGB. One for the origin of the Winter Soldier program. Freight car for the train I fell from that led to Bucky Barnes' death and the birth of the KGB's asset.”

“This is better now,” says Steve, gently pushing the ice pack away from his head so he can sit.

Silence ensconces the yacht but for the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. They look into each other without the need for words until finally, Steve murmurs, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. We'll figure something out that makes Jamie happy and allows for us to be happy.” He swallows heavily before meeting his lover's eyes. “By the power of Christ brought from Heaven, mayest thou love me. As the sun follows its course, mayest thou follow me.”

Tears bead along Bucky's eyelashes.

“As light to the eye, as bread to the hungry, as joy to the heart, may thy presence be with me, one that I love, 'til death comes to part us asunder,” Steve concludes.

Said tears slip silently down his face to cling at his chin. Bucky laces their fingers together and vows, “With these hands, I give you my heart and crown it with my love.”

Their lips share the ghost of a kiss too reverent to be born of sexual need.


	14. The Winter Soldier Vs. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a pretty graphic depiction of the Winter Soldier's torture and rape at the hands of the KGB.

The rattle of various dishes and susurrus voices become white noise to fill the anxious feeling in the pit of Jamie's stomach. Around them, the lunch time crowd of the Boat Basin cafe serves as a blessing. They are a pair of nondescript teens awash in a sea of humanity.

She glances over to look at America's bare wrist, the skin there red and slightly inflamed from wearing Tony Stark's shackles for an extended period of time. Other than that, her friend appears tense while skimming a finger around the rim of a coffee mug. Not for the first time, she wonders if inviting America was the right thing to do, so she reaches over and lays a hand over the other girl's.

“You don't have to do this,” she reassures. “I can walk away with my brother when they arrive, and you can go back to the Tower.”

“That would make me a coward.”

She considers the statement for a moment before responding, “Yeah. Yeah, it would. But not for the reasons you think. You're not happy at the Tower. Going back to the devil you know instead of striking off into the unknown is the weaker choice. But cripes, America, you deserve to finally be allowed to make some choices of your own, don't you think?”

The other girl turns her hand to press their palms together, fingers lacing. “Thanks for not sugar-coating it for me, but you're still a kiddo.” America leans against the table, glance locking on her.

For a heartbeat, Jamie thinks her friend is about to kiss her. It makes her insides zing with sudden anticipation that leaves her feeling confused and breathless, unable to process the sudden surge of hormonal fascination with whatever's under America's too-tight Pink Floyd t-shirt. Realizing she's interested in the curves and valleys of the other's body comes as a greater shock than her recent infatuation with Sam Wilson's playground.

“Oh,” she whispers, eyes widening. A blush stains her cheeks with color.

“What?” America demands. “Do I got something on my face?”

Jamie's saved from making a fool of herself by an early spring breeze sweeping inside as the front door opens. She looks up. Her breath catches upon seeing her brother wrapped up tight in a navy pea coat and red scarf being towered over by a—well, hellllllllo salty goodness. Oh God, she's pretty sure she just checked out her namesake. Wait. It's worse than that. She's pretty sure she just checked out her brother's whatever-they-are-to-each-other. Bad, bad Jamie.

She stands up from the table to attract their attention, nudging America with her foot. Her eyes lock with Steve's. For one, breathless, moment, she absorbs the happy crinkles of his eyes, the color in his cheeks, the bigger body that's packing on weight and muscle fiber. The only time she's ever seen her brother like this was with Mbali, and she aches to run into his arms but settles for smiling upon noticing their ma's rosary wrapped around his wrist.

Moving only occurs to her moments later, at which point, she leaves a few bills on the table and is in the process of shouldering the backpack with her important items when a commotion from the kitchen leads her to the realization Iron Man's moving to come between them.

“No,” she gasps. “No! Steve get out of here!”

Horror freezes her feet to the floor. A whirl of motion outside, purple and black, cues her in to Hawkeye and Black Widow taking up a flanking position to pin Steve and Bucky between them and Iron Man. A rush of fear drops her stomach into the pit of her pelvis.

“Tony, you can't,” she gasps. “Please, they don't deserve what you've got in mind. Please?”

Tony's voice is made tinny by the helmet. “I'm hurt, Kid. I thought we had something special. When Jay told me you were looking up the schematics to America's monitor's, I said it was just teenaged curiosity, but we can discuss that later. Right now, I have a murderer to apprehend.”

Bucky pushes Steve behind his back and raises both hands in a show of surrender. “Steve, Jamie, and America walk free, and I don't fight you in front of the lunch crowd. These people just want to finish their meals and get on with their lives, not be drawn into a gun battle.”

“You killed them. That's not how this works, Buckaroo. You murdered them.”

“I don't remember,” Bucky admits, voice forlorn, eyes downcast.

It's the wrong thing to say. A repulsor blast sizzles across the distance separating them. Bucky throws up his metal arm in defense so that it takes the brunt of the blast, throwing him backward into Steve, who tumbles through the open door into the waiting clutches of the Black Widow and Hawkeye. Bucky's up again in seconds and putting himself in the doorway with both arms raised.

“Steve, Jamie, and America in exchange for me.”

“Fight back!” Tony shouts. “You murdered my parents. I've got all the bargaining power here.”

“I'm not fighting you. What they made me do--” He swallowed heavily. “I can't bring 'em back for you. They turned me into a blank canvas and wrote their will where I belonged.”

“You know what, I'm sick of this. Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight Car.”

Silence.

“Knock knock,” Barnes said.

“What?”

“It's a joke, you know. Knock knock.”

“Who's there?”

“Sergeant James B. Barnes 32557038.”

“How...?”

Jamie cleared her throat and raised a hand in the air.

Tony went ape-shit. He fired off another repulsor blast that Bucky ducked away from. The energy dissipated to crackle into the wall of the building and make the whole structure shudder.

A sick feeling blooms in the base of Jamie's stomach upon hearing the whir of his arc reactor building toward a crescendo, and she knows from messing around in his schematics that means it's building to something cataclysmic. She does the only thing she can in the situation. She hurls herself in between Iron Man and the two people she cares most about.

“You're gonna kill him, Tony. I thought you were more than base vengeance.” She's surprised by how tight her throat becomes at the prospect of Tony Stark becoming so unhinged he can't tell the difference between justice and murder.

He doesn't respond, simply snarls and back-hands her against the chest hard enough she's thrown clean across the room into a table filled with half-eaten lobster entrees. Hitting said table feels like a ton of bricks dropping onto her chest. The wind is knocked from her. She can't suss out the sudden garbled screech or the whirr of motion, a haze trailing behind her as America sprints into overdrive to reach her.

Panic scatters the lunch crowd as people dive for cover or run toward the back exit onto the deck. Someone is snarling like a rabid thing. Steve shouts across a tunnel. Something impacts against the Iron Man armor. Chaos runs like watercolors exposed to rain into a jumble of motion while her soggy brain attempts to recover from taking a hit like that.

By the time her scattered wits return, her head is being cradled on America's lap. She glances up to watch Bucky engage in combat with Iron Man. The way he moves is like poetry, a body honed to the peak of condition as he dances just out of reach of a killing blow, old fashioned martial fervor against ultra-modern mechanical armor. Steve, bless his heart, throws himself in between the battle and Black Widow, who's suddenly advancing on the scene.

Growing up a brawler who insisted on picking as many fights as possible proves an asset, as Steve dances under Widow's raking fingernails and manages to roll over the remnants of a table to put it between them. He scrambles for any sort of weapon and comes up with the broken leg of a chair. _Batter, batter, swing._ Widow takes the hit square in the chest and goes down on the floor.

Another commotion attracts her attention toward the doorway as Captain America finally arrives on scene. Jamie's gut twists. The odds are completely stacked against Steve and Bucky, and the inclusion of Sam Wilson will only spell a quick end to their miniature rebellion. It, therefore, takes her by complete surprise when Sammy hurls the shield to strike Iron Man's chest and force him to take a step backward. Icy silence descends over the interior.

“That's enough,” Sammy snarls.

“Good of you to show up, Buttercup. We're in the process of arresting the deadliest assassin in history. You might know him. Goes by the name of Winter Soldier.”

“What I know is that you're here busting up a place of business on the noon news. We're supposed to agree on missions, Stark. Iron Man and Captain America. You remember that clause in our by-laws? This don't look like you arresting a bad guy. Looks like you going off the rails on a revenge trip. Worse, clips of you on Twitter showcase Barnes attempting to turn himself in peacefully only to be rebuffed with a repulsor blast. It's going viral.”

The Iron Man suit makes an unhappy puppy noise as it powers down. “You don't know what he did.”

“Whatever he did, I know this ain't the way to solve it. You could have put Jamie in the hospital, Man. She's a kid, Tony. Since when did you start slapping kids around when they try to stand up for the people they care about?”

Another unhappy puppy noise as the armor's shoulders slump.

“Look, I don't know what you're feeling right now, Buddy. There's no way I can know. Your parents were killed, and that's a damn tragedy, but this isn't justice. I'm not supporting vengeance.” Sam turns toward Steve, who froze in the process of yanking on Black Widow's hair. “Running is not the answer here. You're going to spend the rest of your damn lives running?”

“What else do you want us to do? They'll throw the book at him. Our court system isn't fit to try this kind of case, Sam. You know how badly they've botched super cases in the past.”

“You don't know that. You're just afraid, and I get that, but come on. You really want to run the rest of your life, pal? What about you?” He levels a stare at Barnes. “You wanna see him on the run the rest of his life? Nowhere to put down roots? Living based on how much money you can pull out of KGB accounts before they start shutting them all down?”

Bucky shook his head. “Tried to talk him into staying. You know how stubborn he is.”

“Look, everyone just chill the fuck out. Tony, I can see your hand twitching.”

“But...?”

“Don't give me that shit, Stark. I've got fucking bald eagle eyes.”

Iron Man's shoulders slump farther. His repulsor powered down.

“This is how things are going down. Barnes is going to surrender himself into the custody of Colonel Rhodes, who has volunteered to handle the safe keeping and transportation of a fellow military man. Jamie and Steve are going to the hospital. America is being temporarily decommissioned as an Avenger until such a time as she turns eighteen and completes a rigorous course of training. You're going to sit on a fucking block of ice and let a jury figure this shit out regarding Barnes. Steve is going to let go of Natasha's hair and put on his adult panties. Hawkeye is in charge of making sure the lot of you don't beat the shit out of each other.”

“Why me?” Clint screeched.

“Because you're the only God-forsaken cuss around this place with a lick of sense in his head.”

***

When Captain America says Bucky is being remanded to the care and keeping of James Rhodes, what he really means is that he's transferred to a secure apartment at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. He takes one look at the apartment and decides it's better than a jail cell if lacking the permanent installation of Steve Roberts, who he hasn't seen since that day at the Boat Basin cafe.

Loneliness is the major drawback. After getting used to spending his every waking moment with another person, finding himself with so much free time is an adjustment. It's also a wonder considering how long it's been since regular company was a thing in Barnes' life. Rhodes stops by daily to play cards or have dinner, and his companionship is surprisingly nice. Being a military man himself, he understands some of Barnes' complicated mind set. It is a little weird making nice with Tony Stark's best friend, though. Anything to keep the monotony at bay.

He's allowed to leave the apartment under escort to run his own errands. Mostly, he spends his time at the library reading up on the history he's missed while under KGB control or being shuttled back and forth to appointments with his court-appointed psychotherapist. The poor woman's going to lose patience with him and bash him over the head with a textbook soon, but it takes him a while to warm up to new people, at least enough to start talking about the decades of torture and brainwashing.

His new lawyer is also a source of companionship in this new life. Jennifer Walters is a well-known defense attorney who specifically requested his case as pro bono work. He likes her. She's brash, irreverent, and doesn't seem to care what the rest of the country thinks about her green skin or heavily-muscled body. Turns out she's Bruce Banner's cousin.

They're sitting down and going through his defense strategy when someone knocks at the door. Bucky cringes and tells himself that only approved people would be let past the guard station outside, but that doesn't stop the swell of anxiety brought on by this new life spent surrounded by strangers. Another knock prompts him to his feet to look through the peep hole. Seeing Black Widow comes as a surprise.

“Miss Romanova,” he greets upon opening the door.

Natalia, and he has only vague recollections of being her trainer in the Red Room, slaps a thick messenger bag against his chest. “Don't say I never did anything for you, Barnes.”

He swallows thickly and reminds himself to speak like a real boy. “Do you, uh, want some coffee?”

A light smirk eases her stony expression. “Think I'll take a rain check. Steve's doing okay. Don't get me wrong. He's pissed off like a jungle cat about being kept away from you and is driving Sam to distraction, but Jamie's fully recovered, and they've moved back into their apartment here in Brooklyn.”

That kindness goes beyond anything he might find in the messenger bag, and he ducks his head, unable to really express how much it means to him. “Thanks.”

“You hang in there, okay?” At his nod, she tips the brim of her pumpkin cloche hat. “Ms Walters.”

Bucky stands in the doorway looking confused for long moments after Natalia disappears down the hall. When he turns, he shuffles the messenger bag over to the table and drops it there so Jennifer can start pulling through the contents. Steam from her mug of tea trails lazily toward the ceiling.

File folders spill across the table filled with printed documents. Most of them make him cringe. One file contains a grainy image of him inside the cryo chamber, face frozen in a look of helplessness. He can hardly bare to look at it for five full seconds before pushing it away. Another file contains remnants of surgical procedures from the attachment of the arm and the various modifications done to it throughout the decades. There are mission details, reports on the various corrective methods to modify his behaviors, lists of the number and amounts of food rewards, and one particularly troubling medical document outlines the time he tried to commit suicide with a stolen fork by opening his femoral artery. That one sends him to the toilet to vomit.

Jennifer follows him to hold his hair back and rub gentle circles across his back. When he's done, she hands him a cup of water to rinse his mouth with, and he collapses, body aching, onto the tile floor. It takes considerable time to get his breathing to return to normal.

“I expect the grand jury will hand down an indictment verdict. Grand juries are informal proceedings. We won't be present during that process, and only the prosecutor is able to present evidence.”

“What is it?”

“Just a committee of civilian jurors who decide whether or not the prosecutors should press charges and move on to a formal trial. There's nothing we can do unless we get a favorable prosecuting attorney.”

A miserable sound escapes.

“I know, Sweetheart.” She a bigger circle against him. “But when the trial proceeds after you're formally charged, we have every reason to be hopeful. We can win this, James. Those papers reveal the process used to condition you. Miss Romanoff just handed us the key we need.”

“You'll forgive me if I don't get up and Riverdance.”

“Of course.” She wet a wash cloth down for him.

“I need to see Steve.” Even he can't stand the miserable sound of his voice.

“I'm working on it. But you need to do something for me.”

“What's that?” 

“You need to start talking to your therapist to build up a pattern of cooperation and show that you're making progress and are safe amidst the general public. If you do that for me, I'll smuggle Roberts in here in my magical carpet bag or something.”

He nods slowly, and finally agrees to get off the cold tiles. Jennifer assures him that it's not necessary for him to go through the files with her, but something masochistic drives him to relive the process in which James Barnes became a machine. By the time they get to audio clips of the KGB interviewing him, he's a mess of tears and feels himself shut down into a particular sort of emptiness. He becomes lost in the jumble of memories, unable to tell time and place.

_ “You see how good I take care of you? How kind I am to you?” _

_The Asset chokes to swallow a noise of complaint as Handler pushes inside him, the raw burn in his ass crawling up his spine from the dry penetration. “You are too good to me.”_

** “10, March, 1952: The Asset's programming lapsed today. We were forced to subdue him and bring him in from the field for reconditioning. It's a setback. The Asset responds easier to the process these days, ever since the twelfth of October, but there must be a better way.” **

**Screaming. Someone is screaming.**

_ “What's my name?” _

Relax your body, pal. That's it. Unclench. Hurts less that way. _A broken whimper. “Grigor.”_

** “What's you're name, Soldier?” **

**“James Barnes.”**

**Screaming. Someone is in agony.**

_A sharp sensation flares like gasoline, the knife blade digging between where ravaged flesh meets metal, skittering against wiring hooked directly into his brain. The Asset screeches. Handler drives balls deep using a grip on the Asset's other shoulder as leverage._

_“What's my name?”_

** “Your name, Soldier.” **

**“B-bucky. God, stop. Please just kill me. Please. I can't--”**

**Broken screams become shrieks.**

_ “Handler. Your name is Handler.” _

_Another blaze of agony races up from his shoulder directly into his nervous system. He can't help himself and heaves the contents of his stomach on the floor, body wracked with spasms. Handler palms the back of his head, forces his face down into the warm muck that just expelled from his stomach. The hard cock in his ass slams into him again._

_ “My name.” _

** “Your name.” **

**“Asset,” he finally shrieks.  “It hurts. Please, God, it hurts.”**

**The screams stop.**

**A heavy Russian voice dictates to the recorder. “Asset accepted the name within ten minutes and thirty-one seconds today. Was given food rewards of shashlik, borscht, and sharlotka upon completion of the task and allowed to shower with warm water.”**

_“Master.” The pain eases._

_“What am I?” Master's thrusts gentle, accompanied by a drizzle of something warm and wet where their bodies are joined, allowing the relief of moisture lubricating the friction of their thrusts._

_“You are my master.” Relief was sweet and allowed for a fraction of something else when the head rubbed up against his prostate. He doesn't hold back a soft, broken sound nor still as he rocks himself onto his handler's penis. Master wants this. His body wants this._

_ Your name?” _

_ “I am Asset. You are Master.” _

** “12, October, 1949: The Asset is finally shown newspaper clippings and video footage from Captain America's memorial. It refuses to accept either as being truthful. If we had a way to dig the Asset's former stream of consciousness from his head, he would be a remarkable specimen. So much fire and determination.” **

**“It's not real. You're making this up.”**

**Silence.**

**“He's not dead!”**

**Silence.**

**“Fucking talk to me, you sick sack of shit!”**

**Silence.**

**“Fuck you and your goddamned country. You might as well kill me now, because I ain't jack shit for you and this goddamned Hellhole you call a fucking country.”**

**A sharp slapping sound. Blood being spat on the floor.**

_ “Tell me you want me, and I'll give you what you need.” _

_Pressure builds in his loins. It's just such a relief, it tells itself, that the pain has stopped. Besides, this is what Master wants. Master wants him to behave to avoid being corrected again. “I want you, Master. Please, make it feel good.”_

_Master reaches around his hip to curl a damp palm around its cock, giving it something to thrust into as it rocks between the glove of Master's palm and the hardness of Master's prick._

**Choked off sobbing. “W-when was this footage taken?”**

**Silence.**

**32557038 tries again. “When was this footage taken?”**

**A soft, Russian voice responds, “Last month after the good captain was officially pronounced dead. We hear the memorial was quite moving. So you see, Asset, there is no one coming for you. No one cares about Captain America's sidekick, but I care. I can make it stop hurting. I can give you a reason for being. Let me help you, my boy.”**

_ “That's it, my boy. Be good for me, and I'll make you feel good.” _

_It culminates in a sudden rush of pleasure that makes its skin tingle and its body sag with relief. Its come spurts into the mess of vomit on the floor, leaving its breathing ragged and body loose. Moments later, Master makes a strangled sound, and the feeling of him emptying into the Asset's hole burns a little. The mess drips down his balls onto the floor. It collapses its forearms to press its face into the mess again, showing submission to its Master._

** “Make it stop hurting.” **

**Crackling as the recording stops.**

When Bucky comes to, he's startled to realize he's sitting in the comfortable armchair in front of Miss Sodhi, his therapist's tablet perched on her knees. He can't bring himself to look her in the eye nor move to wipe the mess of tears and snot off his face, just sits quietly with hands clasped in lap trying to breathe normally. That is no small feat considering how light headed he feels.

“You're safe, James. It's twenty-eighteen. You're in Brooklyn, New York. No one can hurt you anymore. You're safe now.” Her soft, Hindi accent is strangely comforting. He can't remember anyone of Indian descent in the mess that is his head.

Clearing a throat gone raw, he finally smooths his palms across the fabric of his jeans and shifts. He doesn't remember Jennifer leaving the apartment or coming to his therapy appointment. Can't even recall if the memories he's been trapped in are things he's been talking about with her or if he's spent their appointment quietly listening to her as normal.

“I don't--” Admitting that he's lost so much time is hard. They might put him away where Steve will never get to see him again. 

“Yes, James?”

“I don't remember getting here. When did I get here?”

She offers a soft, understanding expression. “Your lawyer brought you about an hour ago. She said you were having some sort of crisis and had become unresponsive. Ms. Walters is waiting outside.”

 _Okay, good, pal. That means we haven't lost whole days this time._ “Did I say anything?”

“You've been telling me about a pair of incidences you endured while in captivity, but you seem unable to focus on each one, and the memories are caught up in the same knot. It's not uncommon for people who've endured brain trauma.”

He couldn't stand to look her in the eyes. “Do you--” After clearing his throat, he tries again. “Are you going to put me away? I mean, do you think an asylum is safer?”

Miss Sodhi appears sympathetic, warm brown eyes softening, but she thankfully doesn't attempt to touch him. “We don't call them asylums these days, James. And no, I don't think institutionalizing you is the best therapy or even necessary for your safety or the safety of the public. You've been free of the KGB for months now without any violent behavior that doesn't stem from self-defense, except the incident at the gallery.”

Relief sags him into the armchair. “T-thank you.”

“I'm going to recommend a few strategies to help you cope with these episodes. Are you still against medicinal intervention?”

He nods vehemently. “After what they--”

“You don't need to justify your decisions to me, Sergeant Barnes. It's enough that you made the decision for yourself. I'm going to respect that. However, I am going to recommend that you be allowed visitations from the people you've built trust with. The best thing for you right now is to be surrounded with the normal tasks of day to day living.”

That perked him up from his slump. “You'll tell them to let me see Stevie?”

“Yes. There isn't a magic strategy to make you better, Sergeant, only strategies to help you cope with your particular challenges. There's no reason you can't go on to lead a full, productive life if you're willing to put in the hard work of evolving. That's all this is, Sergeant. You're not broken. You just evolved from the man you were in the forties. Now you'll evolve again.”

Another wet track slips down his cheek that he hastily brushes away. “Can I come back for my regular appointment this week, or do I have to wait until next week?”

The question brings a smile to Miss Sodhi's face. “Absolutely, you can come see me for your regular appointment. You're going to get through this. You're not alone.”

Jennifer waits for him in the adjoined room, looking up from her tablet and popping to her feet upon his emerging from the office. “Hey, buddy. You're looking a little better.”

“Thank you.” It comes out a little choked, and he does the wildest, craziest thing he can think of; he shoots forward and hugs her.

***

Steve levels a thoroughly mean look at the military personnel who meet him on the ground floor, disapproval radiating off him in waves that make Jamie poke him in the side and suggest that he look a little kinder since they've finally been granted permission to see Bucky. A month and a half, he wants to shout. Six weeks it took them to decide that Bucky needs contact with normal people.

So when they instruct him to empty his pockets and make him walk through a metal detector and THEN force him to stand still for a pat down, he wants to take a sledgehammer to their heads. Instead, all he allows himself is a glower that does nothing to get them upstairs any faster.

“Dude, you can't call them cock-gobblers,” she hisses.

“I did?”

“Yes!”

“Well? They've got my husband locked away in a dank facility where he probably hasn't seen the light of day in six weeks, and when we go in there, he's probably going to look like Gollum. Or something. They're probably not feeding him properly, and God, I want to mount Stark's head on a pole.”

His sister arches a brow. “He hasn't put a ring on it, yet.”

“No, but we said the words.” A blush and a little smile accompanies the remembrance of marrying Bucky Barnes aboard the Mbali Rogers. Doesn't matter that it wasn't a legal ceremony.

The guards shuffle them into an elevator that requires a thumb print, and they ride up instead of down, something that strikes him as a little funny. Dank holes usually come underground. That isn't the case at all, though, as they step out on the top floor and are shown to another guard station manning a nano-wall. It glimmers a gossamer blue. They check in there with IDs and fingerprints before a guard drops the nano-wall to allow them through.

A door at the end of the hall contains a plaque of sorts that reads “Sgt. J. B. Barnes.” Stomach twisting in knots, Steve knocks. Bucky doesn't answer the door. A tall, military man in full dress uniform whose name tag reads “Col. J. Rhodes” answers it and smiles with surprising warmth.

“Sorry about all the restrictions. I'm also sorry your reunion has to be supervised. There was some resistance to the idea of you visiting at all. You know, smuggling metal files in and all that.”

“A metal file would have been picked up by your detectors, Colonel Rhodes.”

“Please, come in. He's waiting for you.”

After Rhodes steps aside, Steve slips in ahead of Jamie and is struck by the vision in front of him. Bucky wears a military dress uniform complete with sergeant chevrons and several pins. He's nervous judging by the way he's crushed his hat between his hands and refuses to look up from the floor. His skin is a healthy shade. His hair is combed and pulled back in a bun. He looks surprisingly healthy.

“Bucky?”

Bucky looks up from the floor. Their eyes meet. Seconds later, they're in each other's arms. Steve covers the man's face in kisses, holds him close, and promises all sorts of ridiculous things he knows he won't ever be able to fulfill but wants to promise anyway. His love for this man defies all mortal boundaries, even death itself. Steve Roberts. Steve Rogers. He suddenly realizes they are irrevocably joined, not by DNA, not by shared memories, but by loving Bucky Barnes.

“James Barnes,” he finally says. “I'd love to introduce you to Jamie Buchanan Roberts.”

The pair hit it off. Of course they do. They are cut from the same cloth, after all, joined by a name and the cyclical nature of life and reincarnation.


	15. The Winter Soldier Vs. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue and the end to my tale.

The following eight months are hard work while Bucky fights to re-acclimate himself to real life. He keeps all his appointments with his therapist, cooperates fully with the investigation into the Winter Soldier and the KGB, and sits in a courtroom while the prosecution lays out the Asset's worst sins. Thing is, the Asset is part of him, not a separate entity, and even if they were separate, he understands the Asset was simply a means of surviving the torture and doesn't deserve to take the blame for the KGB's actions anymore than Microsoft 1.0 does.

He sits through months as his torture is laid out to the jury and the general public watching via live streaming from inside the trial of the century. It's hard facing those demons. It's worse when Tony Stark takes the stand to recount the murder of his parents, but Bucky forces himself to meet the man's eyes and allow him the closure of putting on record the nature of his parents' deaths.

Worse still are the weeks in which Bucky takes the stand. He doesn't want to, but Jennifer thinks they need his first-hand accounts to help prove to the jury he's a man instead of a monster, so he speaks honestly. Three times, he breaks down on the stand and can't stop the overwhelming suffocation of having a panic attack on live television. The judge has to call a recess while he gets himself together.

Steve and Jamie are seated just behind the defense the whole time, so he's able to look up and see the man he loves and his mini-me sitting there in support of him. He's shocked the day Natalia shows up and sits beside Jamie, shocked even more when the defense calls her to the stand to corroborate his testimony by recounting her own trauma at the hands of the Red Room.

After a fiery closing statement by Jennifer, the jury retreats for deliberations, and Rhodes takes him back to the apartment at Fort Hamilton. It's the worst week of his life while the jury is locked in deliberations. He gets through it with a lot of pizza and a lot of cuddles, which he now accepts from Steve, Jamie, and America, who comes to visit with them often.

At the end of the week, the jury successfully returns a verdict that pulls everyone back into court. Seeing Tony sitting in the back of the courtroom isn't necessarily a shock. The shock comes when the jury declares him not guilty and Tony stops him on the way out of the courtroom. They don't speak. Tony just holds his gaze for half-a-minute before nodding and leaving the courthouse.

Bucky Barnes walks out of the courtroom a free man. Steve and Jamie take him back to their apartment in Brooklyn that night with Rhodes' good wishes and promises to keep in touch.

One look at the one-bedroom apartment is enough to assure all three of them they won't be able to live there with any measure of privacy. Steve and Bucky need their own bedroom, not a sofa jammed next to a tiny alcove where Steve paints. That night, the smell of turpentine startles him awake from a hard-won sleep with hazy dreams full of old imagines.

[Bucky shuffles into their tiny tenement after a long day at the factory. Drops his keys on the table by the door. The smell of turpentine weighs heavy in the air. Follows the scent through their bedroom to an open window leading onto the fire escape. A soft, willowy body sways in time with an Irish folk song. Golden hair gleams in the fading, afternoon sun. Buck leans against the window sill to watch. He hums the last few bars of the song with Steve, who squeaks and turns to look down at Buck. Blue eyes crinkle at the corners with happiness. “Your home early.” “Finished up my daily quota already.” Strong fingers wrap around Steve's delicate ankle. Thumb strokes up the length of his lover's Achilles tendon. “So you just wanted to see me, huh?” “Yes.” Breathless now. Steve sets his things aside and climbs through the window. Purple paint streaks his cheek. Wraps both arms around Bucky's neck. Pulls their bodies flush together. A kiss. “You know I love you, right?” asks Stevie. His breath catches. “Love you, too. So much.” Steve sways their bodies together. “There's a tear in your eye, and I'm wondering why, for it ne'er should be there at all,” Steve sings. “With such sweet power in your smile, sure a stone you'll beguile, so there's ne'er a teardrop should fall.” Breathless again. He wraps both arms around Stevie. Steve continues singing, “When your sweet lilting laughter's like some fairy song, and your eyes twinkle bright as can be. You should laugh all the while and all other times smile, and now smile a smile for me.” Bucky smiles. Nothing can make him stop smiling.]

Moving becomes possible when the army grants Bucky a considerable settlement for back pay and a small pension. Those two things combined with his VA benefits, means they're able to move into a two bedroom in the artistic region of Red Hook on the top floor with access to a rooftop garden. Steve throws a housewarming party the night they move in. America's the first to arrive, followed closely by Sam. Even Rhodes and Jennifer turn up.

Bucky smiles while watching Steve skim his bare foot up the back of a calf while standing at the brick oven on the rooftop garden to pull a pizza from inside. A weight settles on the chaise lounge beside him as Jamie plops down to sit with him. They sit in companionable silence for a while.

“Can I have a beer?”

“Can you vote or go to war yet?”

“Come on, Buchanan. You know I can't.”

“When you can vote and go to war, then I'll give you a beer.”

“God, you're no fun.”

Bucky glances over at her, eyebrow arched. “Didn't I just cover for you with Steve while you skipped school to go see that band with America?”

Jamie's cheeks bloom with color. “You promised you wouldn't mention that to living soul.”

“Yeah, but it still makes me the fun parent.”

“Oh gross. You're, like, my step-father or something.” She sulked beside him for a moment. “I bet you drank beer when you were sixteen.”

His smile was nostalgic. [“Stevie, quit your blushing. It's just a beer.” Bucky bumped his shoulder against his thirteen year old companion. Steve huffs, “Bet you stole that from Mr. Murdock's.” “I'll have you know he let me have this fair and square. I am fourteen now, you know.” Spending his fourteenth birthday with his best guy and a warm beer on the rooftop of their building makes it one of his best birthdays ever. They're both hot and sticky from an early March heatwave. Steve's white shirt clings to his willowy body. He wanted to kiss him so bad, the same way he'd kissed Molly Malone behind the school a few days ago.]

Bucky clears his throat and reconfigures his face toward something more disapproving. “Corrupting you would be like giving my sixteen year old self a beer.” He glances her up and down before shrugging and handing her the remnants of his own beer bottle. “You tell your brother, and I tell him about the concert. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly.” Accepting the beer, she swung around the end of the chaise lounge and scurried off to sit with her girlfriend behind a potted palm where Steve wouldn't readily see her. 

A while later, after everyone has gorged themselves on homemade pizza and they've spent time listening to Stevie's ultra hipster music and socializing, his lover stands up and clears his throat, raising a bottle of beer over his head to make a toast. All eyes turn toward him. The murmur of conversation eases toward quiet.

“To a fresh start. We've all been through a Hell of a year what with figuring out how to stand for our moral principles.” He looked at Sam. “Learning how to fight for the people we love.” His glance fell on Jennifer and Natalia. “And realizing that love is an unstoppable force.” Blue eyes settle on Bucky. “This is a new day wherein we honor the people who have passed and look forward to the people we will be.” He moved his hand toward twin dogwood trees, freshly planted to represent Mbali and Steve Rogers. “And in honor of this fresh start, we're going to burn away the old.”

Steve turned and offered Bucky a ridiculous grin full of mischief while making his way over to the fire pit. Jamie brought forward a plastic shopping bag, and from it, he withdrew an unopened box of protein bars which were waved in Bucky's direction.

He couldn't suppress a chuckle. “Shoot, Roberts. What did those protein bars ever do to you?”

The other man's face was open and full of delight while retrieving matches and a small tube of fire accelerant. “This is all for you, babydoll. You're gonna burn away the past to make room for the future. Come on. It'll be fun.”

Learning how to say no to Steve when he employed that particular golden retriever look seemed a distant hope, so he eventually surrendered and moved over to stand beside Steve. His lover dropped the box into the basin, coated it with lighter fluid, and then handed him the matches. Fire flared as he struck a few which he then dropped into the accelerant. A ball of flame whooshed skyward, startling Bucky into yanking Steve away from the pit before their clothes could catch fire. It resulted in a smattering of chuckles and the suggestion that Steve wouldn't look the same with no eyebrows.

Watching the box of bars burn was surprisingly liberating. He remembered those hard days when the only thing he felt like he had any control over was what went into his mouth and came out of his body, where sustaining himself with the bare minimum was some sort of punishment for the wrongs they forced him to commit. In a way, watching the box burn allowed him to feel distant from that pain.

He cups Steve's face in both palms and kisses him in front of their guests.

The box burns down to its contents, packaging and bars reluctant to fuel the flames, so they had to add more lighter fluid than was advisable. First night in their new place and they nearly burn the whole building down, their irresponsibility saved by timely action from James Rhodes, who douses the mess with a fire extinguisher.

Once the flames and smoke have dissipated, that is when he notices the metal container that would have been at the heart of the protein bars. Brow furrowing, he uses his metal arm to fish the thing from inside the mess of ash and foam and wipes it on his jeans. It has his name etched onto the lid. 

It's impossible to ignore the prickle of anxiety at the nape of his neck, the instant fear of a bomb or some other device meant to take him back under KGB control. Steve's hand on his back grounds him, though, and he pops open the lid once it's cooled sufficiently to find a black, band inset with a rim of stones the color of Steve's eyes. The inside of the band is lined with suede, presumably to allow the jewelry to cling more effectively to his metal finger.

Eyes wide, he turns his glance to Steve, who goes down on one knee.

“Will you be my one and only?

Someone makes a squeaking sound. He doesn't realize that it's him while staring between the ring and Steve's precious face. Circles, he thinks to himself. _That's right, pal. Circles and fucking whale songs._ Swallowing past the tightness of his throat, he can't help but beam down at the man he loves and nod, unable to shutter the raw emotion on his face.

[“Marry me, Buck. I don't care if it's legal. Just marry me. Let me the spend the rest of my life knowing that you're my one and only.” Emotion forms a ball in his throat. He brushes a stray tear aside and nods while holding his hand out to receive the wooden band Steve's holding. Steve slips it around his finger and rises to crush their mouths together.]

Steve's face awash with happy tears, the man pries the ring from the protective box and slips it onto Bucky's metal finger. It fits snugly and lights up the pressure sensors to send signals to his brain. It's a constant reminder that he's human. He's a real boy, and they can't take him again.

“Get up here, Roberts,” he breathes. Moments later, they're kissing in front of their friends and family.

Later that night, they sit in front of the fireplace in their new apartment, Steve against Bucky's chest, his arms wrapped around his lover's body while watching the flames leap. The party wrapped up a while ago. Jamie is spending the night at the tower with her girlfriend.

“What are we gonna do with the Mbali Rogers?” Steve asks.

“I was thinking world cruise,” Bucky comments while kissing the crown of Steve's head. “I mean, we could sell her, I suppose. Recoup the income and put it toward Jamie's college.”

“Wash your mouth with soap, James Buchanan Barnes. We are not selling the Mbali Rogers.”

He presents his hands in surrender. “Not gonna argue with you, Sugar, but you know keeping her moored at the dock and paying for upkeep is going to run quite a penny. Between that and Jamie's school, I don't know--”

“Jamie's education has been paid for.”

“Pardon?”

“Stark gave her a considerable allowance fund that she squirreled into several different accounts. The grand total is enough to pay for the rest of her primary education, and Stark has arranged for her to have a full ride at MIT. Books and housing included.”

Bucky doesn't doubt that confusion and uncertainty are visible on his face.

“We all know how I feel about Tony Stark,” Steve continues, “but he feels really bad about what happened at the Boat Basin. Apparently Jamie and him bonded over shared science.”

“Are you sure you want her to be beholden to him like that?”

“I have zero compunction about using Stark's money to give Jamie a fighting chance of fulfilling her dreams. He owes all of us after that nonsense he pulled at the Boat Basin, and he had no reason--”

It's at that point he stops listening to Steve, not that Steve doesn't have important things to say, but he recognizes that special tone, the one that says his fiance is just getting ramped up into a long-winded tangent regarding Iron Man thinking he can operate as a leader of the Avengers while being emotionally compromised, and after all, it's just like Spock in Star Trek Two Thousand Nine nearly beating Kirk to death because he refused to step down after his whole planet was destroyed.

Bucky just holds him and smiles. _Honeymoon, cruise, pal. You're taking the Mbali Rogers and Steve on a honeymoon cruise._

***

Visiting Steve Rogers' grave is Sodhi's idea, one he happily ignored for the better part of three months while everyone else raced around planning a wedding. Bucky would have been happy at a courthouse somewhere, but Sam had disallowed that option by insisting this needs to be an affair worthy of press photos. The whole world wants to know that Sergeant James Barnes is moving on with his life. Thankfully, they manage to keep the secret marriage of Rogers and Barnes out of the media.

So here he is on the day before his wedding, hands jammed into pockets, staring at the monument, a grandiose statue of Steve Rogers brandishing the shield like America's last defense against the forces of evil, one foot planted farther back than the other. On the base of the monument exists a plaque. It reads “Then I heard a voice from Heaven say, 'Write this: Blessed be are the dead who die in the Lord from now on. Yes,' says the spirit, 'they will rest from their labor, for their deeds will follow them.'” Beneath, appears his full name and the date or his birth and death. 

Farther down and on all the sides of the monument's base, he finds quotes from the rest of the Howling Commandos. They go like this:

Jim Morita: We got some Stateside leave once back in the winter of forty-four, so when we got home, first thing I wanted to do was go visit my folks. The morning I was to catch a train out to Tule Lake--that was one of the internment camps for Japanese Americans--Captain Rogers showed up with a duffel bag and a smile. He gave up his leave to make sure I didn't have to go alone.

Lord James Falsworth: Captain Rogers stayed up with me the whole night when I received word from home that my brother, a Nazi sympathizer, killed my daughter. We'd just come in from a two week mission. We were all exhausted, but he stayed with me anyway. The next day, he put my rifle in my hand and said to me, “For Jacqueline.” There will never be a better man.

Tim Cadwallader: Ain't no words can do justice to what that man meant to us, and when I find the bastard who shot him, there's gonna be Hell to pay.

Gabe Jones: You have to understand that back during the war, troops were segregated. Having a black man and a Japanese American in the same unit with white men, and a unit that happens to be considered the elite fighting force, was unheard of, but Captain Rogers never cared about that. He refused to do any sort of press photography or advertisement that didn't also include Jim or me. He made sure the world saw us. I am the man I am today because of Captain Rogers.

Jacques Dernier: There was one time we were fighting the Germans, and this German kid got trapped inside a burning foxhole. When you're fighting a war, you have to dehumanize the other side. Otherwise it turns men into animals having to kill other humans. So the rest of us were going to let this kid burn to death. If we freed him, we would have just had to fight him again. But Cap, he refused to turn his back. He somehow saw the humanity in our enemy when the rest of us couldn't.

James Barnes: _Extracted from an interview on June 12, 1942._ The way the media tells it, you'd think I was the one saving that kid's ass all the time when we were Stateside. That's a complete load of horseshit. The neighborhood we grew up in, I was destined to wind up in some Irish gang. Probably would have been dead or in prison before I reached adulthood. Then I meet this scrappy little kid who's four foot nothing and sixty pounds soaking wet getting the crap knocked out of him trying to save a stray kitten from bullies. I might'a bailed him out of fights, but he taught me how to be a better person. He teaches us all how to be better people every damn day.

Bucky pauses when he reaches the plaque containing his quote. He snuffles back snot dripping out of his nose, dashes his forearm across his face trying to dry it. Shitty thing is he can't remember giving that interview, has no context to go along with that quote, but every damn word is true.

After making his way around to the front of the monument again, he reaches out to trace fingertips over Steve's name. “Heya, punk. Fuck, I didn't think this was going to hit me so hard.”

He sinks to his knees in the grass where he presses his forehead against the words at the base of the monument that read “Justice will prevail” and can't hold back the sobs tearing at his throat like burs being spat up from the depths of his stomach. All this time, he's never had a real chance to grieve his husband's death. He's spent the time since his escape from the KGB on the run or wallowing on Steve Roberts instead of coming to terms with what the wold took from him.

“Dollface? Sugar? What am I gonna do without you? How am I gonna do this without you?”

[Desperate sorts of sounds make the tiny apartment where Steve Rogers grew up seem even smaller. Bucky closes the door behind him and races into Sarah's old bedroom. Finds Stevie on the floor clutching one of Sarah's pillows and sobbing uncontrollably. “Sugar, it's me. It's your Bucky.” He sits on the floor behind him and pulls his lover back into his arms to share his grief, his own eyes blurry with unshed tears, because he has to be strong when Steve can't be. “What am I gonna do, Buck?” His words are barely discernible. “How am I gonna do this without her?” “You're not alone. You're never gonna be alone as long as I'm around.”]

He isn't sure how long he spends there, a broken man at the feet of his soul mate, when his cell chimes. Moments later, it chimes again, so he finally digs it from his pocket to see the wallpaper, a photo of Steve and him snuggled up on their new sofa, Bucky caught in the process of trying to hide his face. The messenger shows two texts from Steve.

**Dollface: can't w8t 2 c u 2morrow. Miss u so much.**

**Dollface: xoxoxoxoxoxo <3**

He looks up from the ground toward the imposing figure towering above him, finds his feet, stretches up to rest his fingers over the toe of Captain America's boot. “It ain't the end of the line yet, pal. Sleep well, Sugar. You earned the rest.”

Turning away, he's surprised to come face to face with Tony Stark and freezes, thumbs hovering over the screen in the midst of composing a text to Stevie. Tony holds a bouquet of gladiolus, sunglasses covering his eyes. Tony eases past him to rest the flowers on the ground at the foot of the monument.

They stand in silence for a while.

“My old man used to tell me stories about Captain America and his not-dumb sidekick, you know. Used to say that he didn't do anything to create Captain America, that Captain America was the product of Steve Rogers and this super devoted guy named James Barnes who wasn't mad having his own star eclipsed by the sun.” He indicated Rogers' monument to indicate who he thought the sun was. “Told me about this one afternoon in autumn and two guys who were soul mates exchanging vows.”

Tony's quiet for another moment before pulling something out of his pocket. It's a small, plastic bag. “Figure this belongs to you instead of some museum. Don't get me wrong. I still don't like you, but he would want you to have it. He wore it for seventy years in the ice.”

Just like that, Tony stuffs the bag in his hand and hurries away.

Bucky is speechless and motionless for several heartbeats watching Stark's back disappear into the setting sun before turning his attention to the contents of the bag. Inside, he finds the wooden claddagh ring he slipped onto Steve's finger when they were married. The gift makes breathing difficult.

A while later, he leaves the monument while typing a message to Steve.

**Me: Can't wait to see you tomorrow too. Tried to sneak out and come see you, but Jenny's got eyes like a hawk. <3 xoxoxo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who's read, given kudos, or commented for giving this story a shot. I hope it was a satisfying read. This has been unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own. Would love to hear what people thought.
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)


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